


Collision Theory

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Monsters, Angst, Arguing, Bisexual Dean, Brotherly Love, Bullying, Dead John Winchester, Dissociation, Drug Use, F/M, Family, Fatherly Bobby Singer, Financial Issues, First Dates, Flashbacks, Frostbite, Gay Castiel, Grief/Mourning, High School Student Sam, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hypothermia, Legal Guardian Dean, Lonely Dean, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Mental Health Issues, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, School Counsellor Castiel, Self-Harm, Smoking, Stressed Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Sam, Therapy, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Worried Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:24:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8507815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: A few weeks before the first anniversary of their dad's death, Dean is called into the high school: Sam has finally crossed the line with his bad behaviour.Given a second chance, Sam must fulfil his punishment: the worst of which being weekly sessions with the school councillor, Mr Novak.Having recently started a new job in a new town far away from his old life, Cas tries to start afresh: two brothers collide with him, an impact he could never have seen coming.





	1. The kind of not-good that gets someone suspended from school

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WinchesterPooja (chronic_potterphile)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronic_potterphile/gifts).



> This is my first ever destiel fic. Whaaat?  
> My good friend, Pooja, is entirely to blame and so this is a gift for her.
> 
> This story is unbeta'd.

It's not yet the middle of the day when Dean gets a call from the high school principal. He's in the garage's office, sorting through the usual; dotting i's and crossing t's. Boring stuff. Simple stuff. Stuff that actually takes his mind off things for a while. Under a car or in the office, he doesn't have to think about everything else that's going on in his life.

His mind is mostly blank, focusing solely on the numbers. It's good. Things are good. It's going to be a good day.

He jumps a little in his seat when his cell vibrates like a mini chainsaw on the desk, the ringtone is grating on his ears. There's a number flashing on the screen that he's received calls from all too often this past year.

Dean sighs heavily, takes a brief second to prepare himself. He puts down his pen and picks up his phone.

"Hello?" he answers.

"Dean Winchester?"

He suppresses a shudder. He hasn't been in high school for almost five years, but the sound of Miss Harvelle's gravelly voice still gives him have a minor heart attack. He clears his throat, trying to sound as authoritative and adult as she must expect him to be.

"This is he," Dean says.

"This is Principal Harvelle from Samuel Colt High School. I need you come in to speak to me as soon as possible. Your brother is currently sitting outside my office."

Dean closes his eyes briefly. A moment to pretend he's somewhere else. He's on a beach, maybe, with a few cold beers and he's with Karen Mulder. Or maybe he's with DiCaprio and he's…

"Mr Winchester?"

That does more than snap him back into the conversation. No one called him Mr Winchester until his dad died. There's a tightening in his airway and he has to clear his throat again just so he can get a breath in.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm still here," Dean says. "I'm coming. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Thank you," Principal Harvelle says, all professional and still downright terrifying. "We have a lot to talk about. Goodbye."

And she hangs up. Just like that. Dean begins to wonder if the conversation ever happened.

The garage is in full swing when he leaves the office. Bobby is giving an old Mercedes a new paint job and Garth is fiddling about with something on a Chevy, no doubt doing things all wrong.

"I gotta head down to the high school," Dean announces. Garth yelps all the way across the room as he bangs his head on the underside of the truck.

"You better not have done any damage!" Bobby barks over his shoulder.

"I think I'm okay!" Garth shouts back, grinning as he pokes his head over the hood.

Bobby rolls his eyes. "I was talking about the damn truck!" he growls. When he turns to Dean, his eyes are soft. "The usual?" he asks.

Dean shakes his head. "Seemed more serious when I talked to the principal on the phone."

Bobby nods, understanding. "Do what you have to, Dean. You can have the rest of the day off, but I need you back first thing tomorrow. I don't want this place burning to the ground with that idjit over there filling your work."

"I'm really sorry about this, Bobby," Dean says. He grabs his jacket off a hook in the doorway. "I'll work overtime soon to make up for it, okay?"

Bobby waves a hand dismissively and smiles. "Don't worry about it, kid. You go take care of that brother of yours."

"I'll try my best," Dean answers, halfway out the door.

"And I want to see both of you boys at my house on Saturday for a proper meal, you hear?" Bobby's voice carries all the way over to Dean's car parked out front. Dean waves his hand in the air as some sort of answer, and he's pulling out onto the road in the next second.

Most of the journey is filled with a chorus of curse words as Dean grips onto the steering wheel like it's a goddamn lifeline.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST BITCH FUCK!" he shouts when he comes to a red stoplight. He winds down his window and glares at it, red light staring right back. "IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE, HUH?"

The light turns green and he speeds along, just managing to catch the shocked expressions of nearby pedestrians. He really doesn't care what anyone thinks of him. He really, really doesn't.

Sympathy. Pity. Disapproval. He's endured all of it.

He tears into the high school parking lot with his wheels squeaking beneath him. A group of students huddled around a bench nearby all turn their heads and stare at him. Eyes following him all the way out of his car, up the steps and to the main school entrance. He pauses, hand on the door, and glances back to where they're already hunched in on each other, whispering and giggling.

Dean lets the door clang shut behind him. The receptionist he's become almost familiar with over the past few months looks up. A smile spreads across her face like a Cheshire cat's.

"Dean," she purrs.

Dean doesn't even pause to glance in her direction as he makes a beeline down the hall towards the principal's office. He catches sight of Sam straight away. There's a miserable lump sitting in one of the chairs outside the door, hood pulled up over its face, back bent, shoulders heavy.

"Sammy," Dean sighs. He drops into the seat next to him. Sam doesn't even look up. Dean reaches out and tugs the hood away from Sam's head. It's only then that Sam looks at him, scowling.

"What happened?" Dean asks. Sam shrugs. The Shrug is Sam's favourite new thing, because why bother with actual human communication?

The kid pulls his hood back up and turns his attention to the sleeve of his jacket. He's completely still from that moment on until principal Harvelle steps out into the hallway, her voice like the crack of a whip as she calls Dean in. Dean sucks in a breath and Sam actually flinches.

Dean finds comfort in the fact that's Sam isn't a complete idiot if he still has the brains to know that he should be scared of Ellen Harvelle.

Dean feels like a kid again when he takes a seat opposite in her office. The door is closed behind him and he begins to understand what a rabbit feels like when it's caught in a trap. He had sat in this very chair many times when he was Sam's age. He is no stranger to Miss Harvelle's disapproving glance and sharp words.

But Sam. Sam had always been different. He's a good kid. He was a good kid.

The office hasn't changed much in the past five years. He notices a couple of new framed photos of a young blond girl he recognises from Sam's class. More than likely it's Jo Harvelle, a girl Dean heard a lot about a couple of years ago when Sam had his first major crush.

"I can't say I'm all that pleased to have to speak to you again, Mr Winchester," Harvelle says.

Dean feels that lump in his throat again. "Could you call me Dean? Please. Ma'am."

She nods and folds her hands in front of her on the desk. There's a file sitting there in front of her with his little brother's name stamped across the front. The file looks a lot thicker than it should be. She opens it, adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and scans the first few pages.

"Sam's record is even more colourful than yours was," she remarks. "Tardiness, unexplained absences, homework not being handed in, fighting with other students, foul language in class, disruption of class, poor behaviour towards staff members, and now I can add smoking on school property."

Dean nearly chokes, that damn lump in his throat has just suddenly expanded and threatens to suffocate him. The principal silently pushes a glass of water in front of him and waits patiently as he drinks and tries to get his breath back.

"Smoking?" Dean repeats, because maybe he didn't hear that right. The look on her face tells him he heard just fine. "Sam doesn't smoke. No way. The kid once cried when he found a pack in our dad's bedside drawer."

Harvelle sighs, eyes drawing sympathetically. Dean hates it. He hates sympathy because it's the last thing he needs. He needs her to be pissed again, he needs her to treat Sam like any normal brat because Dean needs them not to be the Winchester orphans anymore.

"I understand that the last year has been exceptionally difficult on Sam, and your family," she says. "I understand that he needs time to adjust and learn to deal with his grief." Her face turns stony again. "I've been easy on him, giving him a lot of second chances, but I have to draw the line."

"I understand," Dean agrees, "but if you just let me talk to him – "

"Sam needs to know that behaviour like this is not acceptable," Harvelle interrupts him. "Sam wasn't just smoking; he was doing it in the hallways of the school, and when a member of staff confronted him he refused to listen to instruction and said some things that I would rather not repeat."

"What did he say?" Dean can't help but be curious.

Harvelle purses her lips. She turns the file around and points at a few words near the bottom.

"Oh man…" Dean sighs, scanning the paper. This is not good. Not good at all. This is the kind of not-good that gets someone suspended from school.

"I'm going to have to suspend Sam."

And there it is. Just what they need. Fuck.

"You can't do that," Dean protests.

"I have no choice," Harvelle says. "Some things I cannot let slide. However, considering the circumstances, I will give Sam his final second chance. Sam is suspended until next Monday, and when he returns to school he will make progress, understood?"

"Yes," Dean blurts. His heart is pounding a little. He could fall out of his chair any second he's so relieved.

"Sam will also attend detention every Saturday morning for the rest of the semester, starting next weekend. He will join at least one extra-curricular activity. And he will have weekly sessions with our school counsellor where he will learn healthier ways to deal with his grief."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you so much."

"If he so much as puts a toe over the line, he will be suspended permanently. Am I clear?"

"Crystal."

Harvelle stands up and shakes his hand. "I will see him next Monday in my office, 7.30am sharp."

Dean is about to open to door when Harvelle says, "I'm rooting for him."

Dean doesn't really know what to say. He just nods awkwardly and leaves the room faster than he ever did when he was sent there as a student. Sam is where Dean left him, still hunched over like he's trying to become one with the seat. Dean taps his shoulder.

"Come on," he says. "We're going home."

Sam stands up and finally looks at him, not in the eye, his gaze lingers on Dean's chin.

"She tell you what happened?" he asks.

Dean keeps a hand on his shoulder all the way down the hall. "Oh yeah. She told me everything."

Sam looks back to the floor and Dean is actually pleased that Sam has the good grace to be ashamed of himself. The receptionist's eyes follow them both all the way out the door. The air is cold and the trees are bare. This time of year, it's always the hardest. November 2nd is a day they mourn, and now so is December 15th.

That same group of kids are still huddled around the bench. They all take one look at Sam and burst out laughing. Sam ducks his head lower and tries to wiggle out of Dean's grip, but Dean holds on tightly.

In the Impala Dean turns up the heater. The old Legos in the vent rattle and the two of them sit there, listening.

"You could have taken them out," Sam says.

Dean shrugs. "I like them. We put them there, remember? It's like a part of the car now."

"It's annoying," Sam says dully. He shifts in his seat until he's facing the window.

Dean takes a brief moment to gather himself. _I am not pissed. He's just going through a lot. Don't lose your fucking temper, Dean. Go easy on him._

He opens his eyes and he's still in the school parking lot. Sam is still in the passenger seat, still ignoring Dean's presence. Sighing heavily, Dean starts the engine and drives.

He takes the long route home. The only way they can avoid driving past their old house. Dean tried once, to see if he could do it, but the door was painted a different colour and someone else's car was in the driveway and through the window he could see all the furniture that wasn't theirs. It was strange. It was the Winchester's home. It always had been and it always would be, but someone else was living there.

There is another route back to their apartment, but that way is the worst of them all. No way Dean is ever going near that road.

They take thirty minutes getting home when they could have taken ten. Thirty minutes of complete silence and a tension so heavy Dean is waiting for it to pop like a balloon. It doesn't.

He's only just managed to park and Sam is already out the car and heading to the building's front door. He lets himself inside, the door swings shut right in Dean's face. Now, Dean is pissed.

"Sam!" he barks, climbing the stairs after him. Sam doesn't answer but Dean can see his shape flicker above him, one flight up.

When he gets to their floor, the very top floor, he's a little out of breath. He lets himself in and finds no sight of Sam. He knows where his brother is, the same place he usually is. The very same place he would probably eat all of his meals and live out the rest of his life if Dean would let him.

Dean doesn't bother knocking on Sam's bedroom door.

"Fucking knock, would you?" Sam yelps. He's sitting on his bed, school bag abandoned on the floor by his feet.

Dean holds out his hand. "Give me your cigarettes," he orders.

Sam rolls his eyes. "School already took them," he grumbles. He kicks off his sneakers and tucks his feet up on the mattress. "I bet Mr Henrickson is smoking them right now."

" _Henrickson?_ That's who caught you?" Dean says. "Jesus, Sam. And you spoke the way you did to him? Fucking hell!"

"He was being an asshole," Sam defended.

"Oh, he wasn't the asshole in that situation." Dean scratches the back of his head. "Principal Harvelle spoke to you about the suspension and everything, right?"

Sam smirks. "Oh, yeah. She was _this close_ to bringing out charts and diagrams to show how much of a fucking failure I am."

"You're not a failure, Sam."

"Right. Only the best students get suspended," Sam drawls. "Seriously. It's not a big deal anyway."

" _Not a big deal?_ " Dean sputters, just about chokes. "What happened to Mr Straight-A's? What happened to the kid that wanted to go to an Ivy League school and did extra homework on weekends?"

Sam shrugs. "People change. I'm not a kid anymore."

"Sam, you are a kid," Dean says softly. "You're a kid that's been through more than any kid should have to. Please, Sam, you need to turn things around. The principal seems to have faith in you. _I_ have faith in you, Sammy. Think of Dad, you know he wouldn't – "

"Shut up!" Sam snaps. "Don't talk about what Dad would want, okay? He doesn't want anything, he's _dead_. Dead people can't want anything; they can't feel anything. They're nothing."

"Sam…"

"Get _out_ ," Sam bites back. He drops his head, voice lowering with it. "Please… just leave me alone."

Dean wants to say something else, but he's not sure what he could say to help the situation. He wishes he had some magic word that would zap Sam back to the kid he was before the accident. The kid that was so bright and hopeful. This Sam is nothing but a sixteen-year-old ball of anger. Dean clears his throat.

"I'll leave you alone for a bit," he says, "but you will leave your goddamn room for dinner. And we're going to talk about this a lot more, and you will listen to me. Got it?"

Sam doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. On his way out, Dean leaves the door open.

By the time dinner comes around, Sam is fast asleep. Dean eats alone at the kitchen table with nothing but the leaky faucet for company. He twirls spaghetti around his fork. Around and around and around and around. The photograph of their parents on their wedding day stare down at him, smiling and frozen. Both of them. Gone.

************

" _Suspended?_ " Bobby barks. He stares at Dean, clearly surprised since his eyebrows have all but disappeared under his cap. Dean glances nervously back at the office. Through the window he can see Sam spinning idly on the desk chair.

"Keep it down, okay?" Dean says. Sam gets a little paranoid sometimes. A lot paranoid. If he catches Dean and Bobby talking about him, there'll be another blow out that Dean really doesn't have the energy to deal with. "He's out of school until Monday, and I can't leave him at home by himself."

"Of course not," Bobby agrees. "I worry about that boy, you know."

Dean sighs. "I know. I just need him here so I can keep an eye on him. Just until Monday."

"Don't worry about it," Bobby smiles. "You know how much you boys mean to me. I'm just surprised is all. I know Sam's been getting into trouble at school lately but I never thought he'd be suspended. The boy is too damn smart for that."

Dean sneaks another look at Sam, who has stopped spinning in the chair and is now staring at them both.

"His GPA has dropped," Dean whispers. "His attendance is under 70%. It's just not like him. He's just been struggling so badly since the accident. I thought maybe the fighting and skipping school would stop eventually, but it's just getting so much worse."

"It's not just school, Dean," Bobby says. "He's not been the same for months. I think maybe this counsellor will be good for him."

"Maybe."

Dean looks again and Sam is still staring, only now he's got a pissed-off look on his face. He catches Dean's gaze and his jaw clenches. Dean turns back to Bobby.

"I better go talk to him."

Bobby blows out a whistle. "I think you ought to. Although, I'm glad I'm not the one that has to go talk to _El Diablo_ in there," he says. He gives Dean a not-so reassuring pat on the shoulder and heads off to keep an eye on Garth, who is glancing between a wrench and a screw driver with a worryingly puzzled look on his face.

Dean has barely stepped into the office when Sam speaks.

"What were you and Bobby talking about?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam isn't looking at him anymore, his gaze his locked on his feet. In fact, his voice is far softer than Dean expected.

"I was just explaining that you're going to be hanging out here for the week," Dean tells him.

Sam fiddles with his sleeve. "Did you tell him why?"

"I told him you were suspended, but I didn't tell him why you were suspended."

"Is he mad?"

Dean blinks. That certainly wasn't what he'd expected Sam to say. Sam, who for the past few months seems like he couldn't give less of a shit about anything. Sam, who comes home with a bloody nose and split knuckles far too often. Sam, who disappears during school days to God-only-knows-where.

Right now, Sam is sounding a lot like Sam-before-the-accident.

"He's surprised," Dean admits. "But he's not mad at you. Bobby could never be mad at you."

"You're mad at me," Sam mumbles.

"I'm worried, not mad."

There's a moment of quiet, neither looking at the other.

"Sorry," Sam pipes up. "For making you worry."

Dean huffs a laugh. "Dude, I always worry about you. Even when you were still in diapers. I'm just… I just want you to be okay. I can see that you're not okay right now."

Sam shrugs. "I'm fine."

And there it is. I'm fine. Sam's second favourite thing, right after the Shrug. Dean fucking hates it. Sometimes he wants to grab Sam by the shoulders, shake him, beg him to just scream yell cry. Just do anything but be this silently angry imitation of himself.

Sam never cried once after their dad's funeral. Not once. Dean finds himself shedding a tear almost every night when he's in bed and everything's quiet and he's got nothing to do but think. He thinks about how much he misses his parents, how much he misses his brother, his family. He thinks about how he's not cut out for this job. He's not cut out for adulthood.

Dean can barely keep his own head above water. Here he is, watching Sam drown.

************

It's 7pm on Saturday night and Dean is running late. He and Sam are supposed to be at Bobby's right now, but instead they're having a goddamn standoff in the kitchen.

"We're going to Bobby's," Dean says. He would shout but he's too tired. "I told you at the beginning of the week and you promised you'd go."

"I'm supposed to be meeting Ruby."

"Since when?"

"Since she called me a couple of hours ago and asked if we could hang out," Sam says, shrugging. Fucking _shrugging_.

Dean can't hold it back anymore. "And you didn't think about the fact that you're already supposed to be somewhere?" he shouts. Sam actually flinches a little but he covers it quickly, the I-don't-give-a-fuck mask slipping back into place. "And what about the fact that you're grounded? How are you even talking to Ruby? You aren't supposed to have your phone! Does it ever occur to you to think of another human being other than yourself for once?"

Dean is a little out of breath when he's done. He leans against the kitchen table and waits for Sam to respond. His brother is hurt, that much is obvious. There had been a flicker of something on his face that made him look way too much like a scared little kid. Just as quickly, the shutters come down and Sam stares at the floor. He shrugs again.

"I guess not," he mumbles. He's fidgety, fumbling with the sleeve of his hoody. Dean ducks down, tries to get a look at Sam's face, but that ridiculous mop of hair is in the way. When did Sam last have a haircut? Was it before the accident? A year ago?

Sam clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is strained. "I'll tell Ruby I can't make it."

Dean sighs. "Thank you."

Sam turns back towards his room but Dean stops him halfway.

"I just lost my temper there," Dean apologises. "I didn't really mean it, okay?"

Sam shrugs.

He says, "sure."

Jody is at Bobby's house, as she is most of the time. Dean had a bet going with Benny at the diner on how long it would take for Bobby to ask her to move in. So far, both of them are out of the bet. Each of their guesses are almost two years off. Sometimes, Dean wonders if he should just get a house key cut for Jody to save them both the bother.

"I hope you like meatloaf," Jody says as she hands out dinner plates. "Bobby did the green beans so make sure you give them all the appreciation they deserve."

Dean chuckles and she grins at him. Bobby pokes his head around the door.

"I heard my name," he says suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

"Only good things," Jody promises.

Bobby rolls his eyes as he enters. He heads over to the kitchen counter and picks up the bowl of green beans, then he places them proudly on the centre of the table.

"Buttered to perfection," he says.

Dean almost chokes midway through a sip of his beer. "I'm sure they are," he agrees.

Bobby takes his seat between Sam and Jody. He leans on his elbows and smiles at Sam, who has been staring at his lap silently since he sat down.

"How did you like spending time at the garage?" Bobby asks.

Sam doesn't seem to have noticed he's being spoken to so Dean nudges him under the table with his foot. Sam's head shoots up, his eyes wide and alarmed. He pauses and glances around like he's only just remembered where he is. Then, he notices Bobby's gaze.

"Sorry. What?" Sam breathes, eyes focusing.

"Was asking how you liked being in the garage," Bobby says again, gently.

Sam nods. "Right. It was, um, good." Then he glances down again, fidgeting with his sleeve.

Jody glances at Sam, frowning, then she looks to Dean, questioning.

Dean sighs. "Let's eat," he says. Ignoring Jody and Bobby's faces.

Jody and Bobby carry most of the conversation, chatting about work and that crappy movie they saw the other week. Dean pitches in when he can but he's too busy watching Sam, who's too busy staring at nothing and pushing food around his plate.

Sam refuses desert, deciding to sit in the living room by himself while everyone else has pie and ice cream.

"Bobby told me about Sam," Jody says quietly. "About him getting suspended."

Dean smiles grimly. "Yeah… it's been a weird week."

"Bobby also told me that Sam's going to be seeing a counsellor regularly," she goes on. "I think that's really great. You know, I saw a therapist after my son and my husband…" she pauses for a moment, "and therapy helped me more than I can say."

"Not sure Sam feels the same way," Dean admits.

"He just has to be willing to try," Jody says. "He's a great kid. You're doing a great job, Dean. But sometimes people lose their way and no matter how much we try to fix things, we can't get them back on track unless they let us help them."

************

Sam looks even more miserable come Monday morning, if that's even possible. Bobby has given Dean the morning off to get Sam sorted at school. He's up before Sam, making breakfast and packing lunches. He sets out pancakes, syrup, fruit and juice onto the kitchen table. He figures good food might make the morning a little less shitty for the both of them.

He knocks on Sam's door.

"Breakfast is on the table," he announces.

"I'll be out in a minute," Sam answers, voice sounding raspy. There's a soft grunt of pain on the other side of the door, Dean frowns.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Fine. I'll be a minute."

There's the sound of something being knocked over and Dean is stepping into Sam's room the next second. Sam freezes, only his arms are through his sweater, and there's nothing on his bottom half but his boxers. He shrinks under Dean's gaze and yelps.

"Get out! What is wrong with you?!"

Dean quickly backs out of the room. He gets a lecture from Sam about knocking on doors while they're eating breakfast. Dean just nods through it, apologising where necessary, but he's too busy marvelling at the fact that Sam is actually eating everything on his plate.

The kid's been living on just air for the past few days, it was inevitable that the hunger would catch up with him sooner or later. Dean decides to take it as a good sign. Maybe Jody was right; the school counsellor could really help Sam. This could all be a fresh start.

They take the long route to school, avoiding their old house and the road where the accident happened. Sam seems nervous, leg bouncing, fingers fiddling with his sleeves. Dean places a hand on Sam's knee to stop it moving as they come into the school's parking lot.

There are more kids hanging around the grounds in the morning, and a lot of them stare at Sam and whisper not-so-inconspicuously to one another.

Sam tugs his hood up over his head and ploughs on by.

The receptionist looks up when the two of them enter the building, and she winks at Dean, biting the end of her pen. Dean swallows, feeling like a slab of meat being eyed by a lion. Sam has already disappeared around the corner so Dean hurries after him. He finds Sam already slumped down in one of the chairs outside the principal's office, eyes darting around for an escape.

That's when Dean notices the man standing next to his brother. He's dressed like most of the staff in this place; collared shirt under a sweater, messy hair, a cup of coffee in one hand. He's got a tired look about his face, blue eyes sagging, but he's smiling softly, gazing down at Sam as he speaks.

"Um… hello?" Dean interrupts.

"Hello," the man replies. He holds out his free hand and Dean shakes it. "I'm Mr Novak, school counsellor. I was just introducing myself to Sam here. Are you Dean?"

"That's me," Dean says, breaking out into a grin.

Mr Novak nods. "Principal Harvelle asked me down to your meeting this morning, just so I could say hello."

"Cool," Dean beams. He nudges Sam's shoulder. "See, things aren't too scary yet, right?"

Sam shrugs him off. "Stop talking to me like I'm some little kid."

Dean's smile falters and he glances at Mr Novak, who's observing the two of them quietly. Then, the office door opens and Harvelle steps out.

"Hello, Sam," she says to the miserable lump in the chair. She nods to Mr Novak and Dean, gesturing for them to follow her inside.

There are only two seats opposite the principal, so Novak just lingers in the corner sipping his coffee. Sam is flopped halfway down in his seat, trying to pull his hood up. Dean smacks him on the arm and glares at him until he's sitting upright.

"I see you've already been introduced to Mr Novak, our school councillor," Principal Harvelle begins. "He'll be seeing you every Wednesday at 3.30."

"But school finishes at 3," Sam interrupts.

Harvelle raises an eyebrow. "I'm aware."

"So I just wait around for half an hour? Why can't I see him when school ends?"

"Because, believe it or not, Mr Novak works with other students than yourself, and 3.30 on Wednesday is the only free slot available. If you struggle to occupy yourself within that half hour, maybe you could utilise it to catch up with the classes you're failing."

Sam promptly shuts his mouth.

"Back to the situation that got you here in the first place," Harvelle says. "You will write Mr Henrickson an apology letter, no less than one thousand words. Also, you will be spending your Saturday mornings for the foreseeable future helping our Janitor, Ash, to clean the classrooms and paint the bleachers. He'll meet you in the school's entrance at 8am sharp."

Sam's face is stony. Anger is bubbling under the surface, his fists are clenching under the desk, his jaw is wired tight. Dean reaches out and puts his hand on Sam's shoulder. His brother loosens a little under his touch and he takes a deep breath.

Dean notices Mr Novak watching them.

"You will also be joining at least one extracurricular activity," Harvelle adds. She peers down at the file in front of her. "It says here you were on the debate team, the soccer team, and you ran tech in theatre. You haven't been to any of these clubs in several months."

Sam shrugs. "Lost interest."

Harvelle's brows pinch with concern. "These are all things you can discuss with Mr Novak. I know you've struggled a lot since the accident, but you don't need to be on your own. Mr Novak will have sessions with you every week."

"And you can knock on my door any time," Novak cuts in.

Sam pays more attention to his shoe laces than he does to anyone else in the room. Dean nudges his shoulder and Sam reluctantly looks up.

"Are you clear on everything we've just discussed?"

Sam nods. She raises her eyebrow.

"Yes, principal Harvelle," he answers quietly.

She smiles approvingly and gets to her feet. Sam follows, already inching towards the exit. Harvelle puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "I'll escort you to your first class," she says. "As someone will every day this week, each period."

Sam barely stifles his groan. He casts one last glance back in Dean's direction and it's a look of fear that says help me. Dean gives him half a grin and tries to look as encouraging as he can. Thumbs up and everything.

"Thank you for coming, Dean," Harvelle says from the doorway. "I hope I won't have to call you in again."

She and Sam are swallowed up by the crowded hallway.

"I'd better get going, too," Novak says. Dean jumps, he'd forgotten he wasn't alone for a moment. He clears his throat.

"Um. Yeah. I have to head to work," he replies. He gets out of the chair and finds himself a little too close to Novak, at a loss for space in Harvelle's tiny office. He quickly steps back, heat rising on his cheeks.

Novak stares at him, blue eyes bright and amused. He takes a sip of coffee. "It was nice meeting you," he says.

"Right back at you," Dean replies, and immediately regrets it. _Right back at you?_ Who says that?

He doesn't waste another moment before he's out the door.


	2. It would be a fucking precipise

Mornings are not one of Cas' favourite things. In fact, mornings are high on the list of his least favourite things.

Least favourite things:

  * Halloween
  * Mornings
  * Alcohol
  * Tabloids
  * Anything that comes out of his mother's mouth



However, there is a perk to every morning: coffee. Cas is not a fully functioning human being until he's had at least one cup of coffee at the beginning of the day. Coffee is definitely on his list of favourite things.

Favourite things:

  * Coffee
  * His books
  * Phone calls from his sister
  * His cat
  * His job



Maybe that last one isn't exactly his _favourite_ thing. It's definitely something he loves, something he's worked so long for. But, like any job, it has its downsides. Being a school counsellor doesn't automatically warrant respect, as much as he'd like it to. There are plenty of high school kids wandering into his office during lunch with problems that are certainly made up. He's had one kid come to see him complaining that _he's too hot and it's hard getting around school when all the girls are throwing themselves at him._

Cas had just pointed the boy to the door.

On the other hand, he meets a lot of great kids. He's able to help them as best he can. He's met more than one girl struggling with an unplanned pregnancy, he's spoken to several students about anxiety and depression, he's even had one girl open up to him about her sexuality. Cas has never been able to relate to someone more than he has with Lily.

In his too-bright bathroom, he brushes his teeth with one eye still closed, the other only half open. Then, he stumbles to his kitchen and feels around blindly for the coffee machine. He sighs when the machine whirrs and bubbles, the smell of fresh coffee fills his senses.

He dresses, rubbing grit from his eyes so they're clear enough to tell what he's putting on his body. He goes for the usual getup he wears to work: a button-down, a sweater, slacks.

By the time he's done, the coffee is ready. Cas fills his cup and breathes it in.

"Thank the lord," he mutters, and takes a sip.

There's an insistent brushing against his legs and he glances down to find his cat pawing at him.

"Alright," Cas sighs. He quickly fills Balthazar's bowl and scratches the base of his tail until he's purring happily. Cas downs the rest of his coffee, eyes on the clock, then he's grabbing his work bag and coat. By 8am, he's out the door.

The bus is at the stop when he gets there and he manages to hop on before the doors close. He's out of breath, he still has bedhead, and he's only just noticed the coffee stain on his sweater. There are a few school kids on this bus, some he's seen around. They stare at him until he takes his seat.

He tries to listen to some music on the way, but the bus is so loud that no matter how high he turns up the volume he can still hear the engine and the constant chatter of the kids behind him. He takes a deep breath and thinks of the coffee he'll have at 10am.

Mornings are the worst.

He's feeling a lot less homicidal by the time he's sitting in his office, doors closed. All the students are in class right now, or at least they should be. He thinks of his newest filled slot: Sam Winchester. The file was dropped off on his desk a couple of days ago, and he hasn't yet managed to get a proper look at it.

It's not hard to find it in his cabinet; it's the thickest file there. Cas sits back down and opens it up.

If he had to draw a graph to show the quality of Sam's school performance from his first day to now, there would be a steep line going down from left to right. It would be a fucking precipise.

Sam ticks off pretty much every offense in the school's rule book. Some things are pretty tame, committed by a lot of the students in this school; not handing in homework, forgetting school equipment, missing classes. Then, there are some of the more worrying offenses; getting into fights, not showing up for several days in a row, smoking in the school halls, using offensive language towards both staff and fellow pupils.

And the worst thing is that Sam Winchester was the top of his class last year, set to be valedictorian, made for the Ivy League.

Well, any kid would spiral downwards if they'd been through what Sam Winchester had.

Cas has heard about it, of course. This is a small town and everyone knows everyone. He didn't move here until September, months after the accident, but even now he still hears it being spoken of. He flicks through the file and finds the page he's looking for: authorised absences.

Sam was absent for the last week before Christmas break last year, he was also absent for three weeks after. That was when everything went downhill. Cas opens his laptop and searches the internet until he finds a small news article.

_Car accident, 1 fatality._

Sam was in that car, and so was his dad. Sam walked away with a broken arm and a concussion. John Winchester didn't walk away from it at all, killed on collision.

Cas leans back and scrubs a hand down his face.

Fuck.

How long was Sam trapped in that car before the ambulance arrived? How long did he have to sit next to his father's dead body?

* * *

His break comes and goes uneventfully. He sits in his office and drinks his second cup of caffeine of the day. Lunch is a different story. He comes back from the bathroom to find five teenagers queued outside his door. At the front is Lily.

"Come in," he tells her. He holds the door and lets her by, then he shuts it behind them. He waits until they're both seated before he speaks. "How are you?"

Lily bites her lip. "I told my parents."

Cas' eyebrows go up. "How was it?"

She smiles shyly. "They said it doesn't change anything. My mom said she already knew, I have no idea how, but apparently, she did. They said all that matters is that I'm happy."

Cas grins. "Lily, I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you, Mr Novak. I would never have been able to do it without you. You were the first person I told and you gave me the courage to tell my family."

"Don't give me too much credit," Cas says. "This was all you."

Lily ducks her head shyly. She pulls her backpack off her shoulder and fumbles around inside until she pulls out a rolled-up piece of paper. "This is for you," she says, handing it over. Cas takes it and begins to unravel it, but Lily quickly stops him.

"I'd rather… you don't have to open it in front of me," she says, cheeks turning pink.

Cas smiles and nods. "I'll wait until I have a moment alone."

She gets up and leaves without much more said between them, just a smile shared, an understanding between the two of them.

Cas gets through the rest of the kids outside his door just before the end of lunch hour. He hurries down to the cafeteria before it closes and buys one of the six sandwiches they have left. It's quiet in his office as he eats and works, filling out papers and reading up on his students.

He has two back-to-back appointments at the end of the day, both half an hour long. There's progress with Charlie, he thinks. She hasn't tried to hack the school system in over a month and she says she's focusing her skills in tech club, she's even thinking about colleges. Cas is feeling bright when she leaves.

Charlie slips past him as he holds the door open but she pauses one step out of the room. Sam Winchester is sitting in one of the chairs in the hallway.

"Hey, Sam," Charlie says, putting on a smile. "I haven't seen you around in a while."

Sam looks up and blinks at her. "Charlie? Oh, hey. Uh. Yeah, I've been busy."

Cas feels like he's intruding on something, he can see that they know each other well. While Charlie's expression reads longing, Sam looks like he wants to bolt.

"Maybe we can hang out some time?" Charlie offers.

Sam's gaze wanders away from her, down to his hands. He fiddles with his sleeve. "Yeah. Maybe."

Cas grimaces. The complete lack of enthusiasm had to have hurt, but Charlie just smiles and waves goodbye, heading down the hall and out of sight.

"Come on in, Sam," Cas says. He holds the door open and Sam wanders inside. Cas' office is one of the smallest in the school. The walls and the desk are undecorated, but most surfaces are covered in files and papers. He already has Sam's file out and he sits in his chair and opens it up.

Sam isn't sitting down. In fact, he's staring at the chair like it might bite him in the ass if he sits in it.

"Is something the matter?" Cas asks.

Sam looks at him like a spooked horse, but it's quickly covered by that nonchalant expression Cas has seen a lot of since their first meeting.

"No," Sam answers. He drops into the seat, glancing around, leg bouncing. "Would it kill you to put a picture up or something? No offense but it's kind of depressing in here."

Cas laughs, managing to pry a small smile from Sam's lips.

"I'll make a note of that," Cas says, scribbling on a post-it. " _Make office less depressing_. Got it."

Sam leans back into the chair, fingers tapping on the plastic arms. He looks at where his file sits in front of Cas, focusing like he might be able to read the words hidden under the cover.

"Right. Let's get to it," Cas begins. "First, I want to lay down a few rules, okay? In my office, you are free to let out your frustrations, but if that's the case, you will use the stress ball."

He plucks the blue ball from its place by his computer and leaves it in front of Sam. Sam stares at it, eyebrow raised. Cas can tell he wants to say something, presumably along time lines of _this is dumb_. Sam manages to keep his mouth shut.

"Also," Cas goes on, "if, at any point, you begin to feel uncomfortable or that you need to stop for a moment, just raise your hand."

Sam immediately raises his hand. Cas sighs.

"Once we've actually started the session, I mean."

Sam shrugs. "Okay."

This isn't so bad, Cas thinks. Sam's a little cocky, sure, but he seems like a good kid. Cas has dealt with much worse.

"Let's start, shall we?" Cas says. "Tell me a little about yourself."

Sam snorts. "What?"

"Tell me about yourself," Cas repeats. "What do you do in your free time?"

"I dunno. Nothing, really," Sam says, shrugging.

Cas narrows his eyes. "You don't watch TV?"

"Sometimes, I guess."

"What's your favourite show?" Cas asks.

"What's the point of these questions?" Sam retorts.

"It's just a question, Sam. My favourite show is _Twin Peaks_."

Sam's nose twitches and his hand wanders up to where the stress ball sits on the desk. He pokes at it and says, " _The Walking Dead_ is pretty cool, I guess."

Cas nods attentively. "Favourite character?"

Sam glares at him. "This is really weird, by the way. I thought you were supposed to be _pointing me in the right direction_ , not making small talk," he says. The stress ball is snatched away and Sam begins to squeeze it, passing it back and forth between his hands.

"Is something bothering you, Sam?" Cas asks.

"You are," Sam snaps.

"And why's that?"

Sam groans, head tilting back until he's staring at the ceiling. "These questions are dumb!"

"Why am I bothering you?" Cas asks calmly. "I'm being perfectly reasonable. My questions have been perfectly reasonable. I just want to know what made you lose your temper so quickly."

Sam takes a deep breath and his fidgeting lessens. He holds the blue stress ball in his hands and clenches his fingers around it gently.

"I don't do well with people," he says quietly. "I can't stand their constant chatter, always asking questions, always watching me. People stare at me when I walk down the hallways," his smiles grimly, "because everyone wants to get a look at the freak."

"People call you that?" Cas asks. He wonders if bullying is also at play here.

"They don't have to," Sam says, shrugging. "It's the way they look at me. I see them talking about me, too. In a crappy little town like this, it's big news when there's a car accident. They love that shit."

"Sam, I'm sure no one feels that way. What happened was an awful thing. No one is happy about it."

Sam looks up and meets his eye. "You don't know anything about it."

"Maybe you can explain it to me, Sam," Cas ventures. "You don't have to go into detail. Maybe you can just tell me a little about – "

Sam's hand goes up. Cas nods.

"Okay. We don't have to delve any deeper than you're comfortable with right now."

Sam sits up in his chair and places the stress ball back on the desk. "Can I go yet?"

Cas checks the clock. "We still have twenty minutes left."

He watches Sam. The boy is fidgeting again, knee bouncing up and down, hands fiddling with his jacket sleeves. Cas tries to meet Sam's eyes but his gaze is fixed away determinedly, tears threatening.

"We'll have a five-minute break, okay?" Cas offers. Sam doesn't wait for anything else to be said before he's up and out the door. For a moment, Cas is worried he won't be coming back, but then he notices Sam's bag is still left on the floor by the vacated chair.

He figures now is a good time to get a cup of coffee.

The school is deserted at this hour. Only the sounds of a wet mop scrubbing the floor and Cas' own footsteps echo in the corridor. Ash the janitor is doing some kind of shuffling dance as he cleans, the handle of the mop is his dance partner. He notices Cas and waves, undeterred, carrying on with what he was doing.

It's starting to freeze outside; the days are creeping closer to the beginning of winter. Still, Cas decides to make a shortcut across the school grounds to get to the teacher's lounge. The field at the centre of the running track is pale green with frost, the trees are half-bare and standing on blankets of crisp brown and orange.

Cas wishes he'd brought a jacket. He tugs the sleeves of his sweater over his hands and hurries his pace towards the teacher's lounge. He's halfway there when he finds Sam.

Sam, who is leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. He jumps when he sees Cas and tries to hide it behind his back. Cas raises his eyebrow.

"Ah, shit," Sam mumbles. He brings the cigarette back up to his lips and inhales, blowing the coils of smoke out between his teeth. He shrugs, resigned.

"When I said we'd take a break, this isn't what I meant," Cas says.

"I was kinda hoping you wouldn't see," Sam replies. He's huddled up in his jacket, nose and cheeks turning red. "Well. It's too late now." He scrubs his free hand down the side of his face. "My brother is going to kill me."

"I imagine he's not happy about the habit," Cas agrees.

Sam shakes his head. "No. He's gonna kill me because I got suspended. Permanently this time."

Cas frowns. "Suspended permanently?"

Sam waves the cigarette in his hand, it's half burned down to cinders and he taps away the ash. "Principal Harvelle told me I'm out of here if I get caught doing this in school again."

"Well, we aren't in school hours," Cas points out.

"Huh?"

"School isn't in session right now," Cas says. "Maybe no one saw you."

Sam blinks at him. "You won't tell?" he asks, staring at him like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"If you stub out that cigarette right now, I didn't see anything," Cas offers. "Only if you put it out. Now."

Sam doesn't hesitate. He drops it to the ground and crushes it beneath the sole of his sneaker. Cas finds himself smiling. Watching Sam do what he can to avoid expulsion shows that the boy is willing to try. It's a good sign. Cas carries on the way he was going and beckons Sam to follow.

"Where are we going?" Sam asks, long legs allowing him to catch up quickly. He's taller than Cas is, taller than most people in school, in fact. But the boy is also lanky and baby-faced. He's still just a kid.

"I need some coffee," Cas tells him. He holds the door open for them both and they step back into the warmth of the school. The teacher's lounge is right across the hall and Cas unlocks the door. He heads straight for the coffee machine. Sam lingers near the door, glancing around.

"Do you want a drink?" Cas offers.

Sam shrugs.

"Water, juice, coffee?" Cas persists.

"Um. Water," Sam says. Cas grabs a bottle from the fridge and hands it over. Sam uncaps it and takes a long drink.

"How long have you been smoking?" Cas asks, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.

Sam glares at him. "Why does it matter?"

"I smoked a little from high school through to college," Cas tells him. "I didn't like it so much, but it's a tough habit to kick. I guess I picked it up to piss off my mother."

Sam actually grins. "Oh, yeah? Nightmare parents?"

"My mother once told me I was going to hell because she found a copy of _Harry Potter_ in my room," Cas says. Sam lets out a low whistle.

"That sucks," he says, not unsympathetically. He has another sip of water. "I never knew my mom but I'm pretty sure she'd never have said something like that to me. She sounded pretty great, from what my brother and dad tell me."

Sam cuts himself off and his face pales. He'd just talked about his dad in the present tense. Just like that, the shutters come back down. Cas had gained his trust for a few minutes there, Sam had actually begun to open up. Now, Cas suspects he won't get much more out of him in this session.

The coffee machine _pings_ and Cas fills his mug. "Let's head back to my office."

They take the long route through the corridors to avoid the chill outside. Sam doesn't say a word. He picks up the stress ball as soon as he's sitting in Cas' office again.

"Are you okay?" Cas asks.

"Fine," Sam answers, bouncing the ball up and down in one hand.

Cas figures now is not the time to delve much deeper into family matters. Instead, he asks, "Why were you smoking in the school corridors the other week? You knew it was against the rules."

Sam shrugs. "I'm not sure why I did it."

Cas doesn't believe that for a second. "You were hoping you would be caught," Cas guesses.

"Why would I do that?" Sam retorts.

Cas sighs. "Sometimes, when we're struggling and we don't know how to make things better, we do destructive things. This may be because we're angry, or maybe we want to get someone's attention, to get help."

Sam is staring at his feet.

"Or," Cas continues, "we might have these destructive behaviours because we think we deserve to be punished."

Sam's eyes meet Cas' for a split second. He quickly averts his gaze and shrugs.

"Do any of those apply to you?" Cas asks.

"Nope," Sam says. "Maybe I do destructive things just because I'm an asshole. Maybe I just don't give a shit."

"I don't think that's true, Sam. I think you care a lot."

Sam snorts. "Are you fucking kidding me? You've known me for, what, about half an hour? You don't know anything about me. Stop with your reverse psychology crap. I don't even get why I'm here. There's nothing wrong with me."

He's up and out of his seat, hands shaking and tugging down on his sleeves. "Can I go now?"

"Sam, we have a few minutes left."

"Then we'll do extra next time," Sam says. He's breathing erratically, clutching at his chest. "I don't feel good. I think – I think something's wrong. I need to go home."

Cas gets up and eases Sam back into his chair with a hand on his shoulder. The boy is hyperventilating.

"I think you're having a panic attack, Sam," Cas says softly. "We need to get you breathing steadily."

"No," Sam chokes. "Something's wrong! I need to go home! _Please._ "

"It can feel like that when you have a panic attack," Cas agrees, "but you'll be okay. Just copy me. Breathe in and out. In and out."

It takes a few minutes but eventually Sam is breathing steadily. His eyes are red and streaming with tears, but he seems to have calmed down a bit. Cas' hand is still on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

Sam nods.

"Do you know what triggered that?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Has that happened before?"

Sam nods.

"How often does this happen?"

Sam swallows thickly. "Every week. Sometimes – sometimes, more. I d-dunno," he admits. Cas grabs a tissue off the desk and hands it over. He waits patiently as Sam wipes his eyes and nose.

"When did it start?"

"About a year ago."

Since the accident, Cas thinks. He stands up and Sam follows, grabbing his bag.

"We're done here, right?" Sam asks.

Cas checks the clock. "I suppose, but – "

"Okay. Bye, then."

Sam is already at the door.

"Sam, wait – "

The door slams closed behind him. Cas swears under his breath and hurries after him. He manages to catch up to him in the corridor.

"Maybe you should sit down for a minute," he suggests.

"I'm fine," Sam says, his voice is uneven, his eyes are burning with fresh tears. He quickly wipes them away.

"How are you getting home?"

"My brother's picking me up."

"I'll wait with you until he gets here. I'll need to talk to him – "

Sam comes to a halt and turns so he's right in Cas' face. He's a tall kid and that height, coupled with the fierce expression on his face, makes him very intimidating. He's only sixteen, Cas reminds himself. But he can be pretty damn scary.

"Would you back off?" Sam says, low and sharp.

"I'll need to talk to your brother about this," Cas says. "Just to make sure you'll be okay at home."

"I'm. fine," Sam bites out. "You can do the shrink crap all you like, but the session's over. Leave. Me. Alone."

Cas holds his ground. "I can't do that."

Sam steps forward, and for a second Cas thinks he's going to be shoved or hit, then Sam pauses. He sighs heavily, runs a hand through his hair, and he steps back, moving down the hall.

"Do what you want," he says. "I don't give a shit."

Cas highly doubts that's true. He follows Sam out into the parking lot. When he sees the boy trek across the dark, icy asphalt towards the road, he realises that Sam lied. There's no sign of anyone coming to collect Sam from school.

He runs back to his office to grab his stuff and lock up, then he's hurtling down the road, as fast as he can on the icy ground, after Sam Winchester.

He's breathless and sweating through his shirt by the time he catches up. Sam stops and stares at him. He looks surprised rather than angry, his nose and eyes are red, his cheeks are wet. He hastily wipes at his face with his coat sleeve.

"What?" he asks, sighing. Any resentment he had towards Cas earlier seems to have drained away, and now the boy standing there is tired and defeated. Cas decides in that moment that he'll do whatever it takes to help Sam. This boy needs help.

"No one's coming to pick you up," Cas says. "Why did you lie?"

Sam's eyes drop to the floor. "I dunno."

There are a lot of questions that Cas wants to ask, but he goes with, "How far do you live?"

"Not far," Sam replies. He continues to force his gaze away from Cas, a tell-tale sign that he's lying.

"Are you walking home?" Cas asks. It's dark and freezing at this time in the early evening and he'll be damned if he lets Sam walk all the way home by himself. Sam nods in answer to his question.

"What about the bus?"

"Don't have any money."

Cas reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. Sam immediately takes a step back.

"I don't need your money," he snaps.

"It's only a couple of dollars," Cas points out. He holds out a couple of notes and Sam stares at them like they might bite him. Cas sighs. "You can pay me back, if you like. I just think it would be irresponsible of me to let you walk all the way home in the dark by yourself."

"I'm not a kid."

"Never said you were."

Hesitantly, Sam reaches out and takes the money. He stares at his shoes and says, "I'll pay you back."

He carries on walking down the road, Cas hurries to catch up. The boy glances at him from the corner of his eye, but seems determined to ignore him. Sam breaks the silence when they arrive at the same bus stop.

"Are you stalking me?" he asks. The tone in his voice is not light or jesting, he seems genuinely worried about the possibility, keeping himself at a distance and staring at Cas unblinkingly.

Cas puts on a smile. "Just catching the same bus as you, then I'm headed home."

Sam nods, but continues to watch Cas. Cas tries to ignore him, turns his attention to his ipod, he inserts his earbuds and sets it to shuffle. On the bus, Sam sits as far away from Cas as he can, squished right into the corner at the back. Cas can feel eyes on the back of his head.

He hears Sam's immense sigh of relief as he gets off the bus before him. Watching the bus leave, Cas finds himself worrying more than he'd expected.

* * *

Cas sleeps in until noon on Saturday, woken only by Balthazar's insistent paw batting his nose. Cas peels his eyes open and the cat begins to purr deeply, he hops off the bed and waits in the doorway. He yowls when Cas doesn't move.

"Alright, I'm up," Cas groans, kicking off the covers. He shudders when his skin comes into contact with the frigid air. The first thing he does is fill Balthazar's bowl, then he turns on the heating, then he turns on the coffee machine. When he opens his fridge in search of his own breakfast, he finds nothing but a hard block of cheese. He finds much the same in the cupboards.

"Looks like I'm going to the store," Cas tells the cat. "You need anything? Milk, tuna, more litter? Don't bother asking for catnip because you know I'm not getting it for you, not after the last time."

Balthazar blinks at him and goes back to his bowl. Cas drains his coffee and brushes his teeth, not bothering with a shower, he doesn't plan to be at the grocery store for too long.

The nearest store is two blocks from his house so he wraps up warm and walks. It's still chilly despite the sun being high in the sky, and he wishes he'd worn some gloves. When he gets to the supermarket he finds the parking lot almost full. He sighs. Of course, everyone would shop on a Saturday afternoon.

Inside the store, it is bright and shimmering; tinsel at the checkouts, stacks of Christmas tree decorations stand right in the entrance, staff are dressed as elves. He forces himself not to get distracted. Christmas has always been his favourite holiday, but this year he hasn't even got a tree. He has nowhere to be this Christmas, he has no one to visit.

He grabs a basket and trudges on.

His stomach growls and he's almost drooling at the sight of fresh pastries on display in the in-store bakery. He grabs a few croissants, a carton of juice, a dozen eggs, bread, jam, cornflakes. It's a bit over the top, but he's starving and he figures he can have breakfast for dinner. He's far too tired to look for sensible groceries.

He's at the checkout twenty minutes after entering the store. The line is moving slowly so he checks his phone. No messages.

"You're five dollars short, sir."

The man being served in front of him sighs heavily. "Um. I don't have five more dollars. I did the math and I was sure that I got the prices right."

The lady at the till looks sympathetic. "Some things that were on offer last week are back to their original price this week. Is there anything you can put back?" she suggests.

The man looks through the bags, frowning. "I need everything that's in here. Can you, like, put it on a tab or something?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't."

Cas digs out his wallet taps the man on the shoulder. Dean Winchester turns around to face him, surprise clear on his face. Cas clears his throat and holds out a five-dollar bill.

Dean shakes his head. "Oh. No, thanks."

"You need it," Cas points out. "It's okay. Pay me back if you like."

Dean hesitates for a moment, then he takes the money. "I'll pay you back," he says, looking Cas in the eye.

"Of course." Cas wonders if the Winchester brothers are aware of how similar they are.

Once Dean has paid, he waits for Cas. The two of them walk towards the exit in awkward silence.

Dean speaks once they're outside. "Thanks for that," he says. He doesn't look directly at Cas and his cheeks burn with obvious embarrassment.

"No problem," Cas shrugs. He finds himself staring. Dean Winchester is probably the most attractive person he's ever seen in his life, an other-worldly kind of person who belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine. His jawline is strong, his eyes are bright green and framed with thick lashes, his lips are pink and plump and feminine. His shoulders are broad and his brow is hard enough that he's extremely rugged despite the prettiness of his face.

Yeah. He's so ridiculously good-looking, it's almost annoying.

Dean breaks into a grin and crinkles deepen around his eyes. Upon further look, Cas notices that Dean's nose is slightly crooked, there's a scar on his chin, his pale skin is covered in freckles. His smile is bright and his eyes are tired. He looks more average like this, and that just makes him even more attractive.

Cas quickly averts his gaze and scans the parking lot.

"Do you – would you like to get some coffee or something?" Dean offers. "Just to say thank you for saving my ass back there."

Cas blinks at him. The first thought that pops into his head is whether or not it's okay to go on a date with a student's relative, then he quickly reminds himself that this is _not_ a date. Maybe he's just that desperate and lonely that he's making up false scenarios in his head. Well, that's not exactly new, Cas and Bradly Cooper had a very nice engagement, thank you very much.

It's a 'thank you' coffee. Nothing more.

"That'd be great," Cas says.

Dean's smile falls and he looks awkward. "I don't have any cash for coffee… um, I could make you some at my place… but I only have the crappy instant stuff. I _do_ have some food," he shakes his bag of groceries, "I could make you something to eat. If you want."

Cas' heart soars as he begins to ponder even further: is this a _date?_

"Yeah. I'd like that," the words slip out before he can think much more about it. Dean claps him on the shoulder and grins again. Cas follows him through the parking lot to an incredible classic black Chevy.

"You have a beautiful car," he says.

"Thanks. It was my dad's," Dean says. His smile falls immediately and he clears his throat, he quickly offers to put Cas' groceries in the trunk.

During the drive, Cas learns that Dean is a talker. Within twenty minutes he knows exactly where Dean works, he knows what Dean's favourite food is, and he learns a story about a baby Sam Winchester which he thinks he probably shouldn't know.

The pulls to a stop outside a small, battered apartment building. He steps out of the car and looks around. This isn't a part of town he's ever been to before; the houses and building along the street are cramped together, the grass is unkempt. It's a big difference to Cas' white-stone apartment building and flower beds. He's not exactly rich, not on a school counsellor's salary, but this neighbourhood is almost foreign to him.

Dean grabs the bags and leads him inside, all the way up to the top floor, and into a small flat. Cas hangs around awkwardly as Dean puts groceries away.

"Take a seat," Dean calls out from behind the fridge door. "Do you like pasta?"

"Very much."

"Great!" Dean beams, reappearing with two beers in hand. He places one in front of Cas.

"I don't drink," Cas blurts, immediately blushing. "I mean, can I have a glass of water?"

Dean doesn't say anything, he just grabs a clean glass and fills it. Cas sips tentatively and glances around. The apartment is mostly bare. A lot of the furniture looks old and well-worn, but there are some hints of youth like the Star Wars poster in the living room and the battered game cube by the TV. There are a lot of pictures on the wall, too. A bride and groom smile down from the wall next to him, another frame holds a toddler with a baby on his lap, another shows a mousy little boy who must be Sam beaming with ice cream dripping around his mouth.

"Is Sam here?" Cas asks. "I mean, I don't want him to feel uncomfortable."

 _Then why did you come all the way to his house?_ He hates to admit that he was encouraged by a beautiful man. The situation would probably give his mother a heart attack and that thought pleases Cas more than it should.

"He had detention this morning," Dean says. He sips his beer. "He probably won't be back until later tonight. He disappears as often as he can."

Dean stares at his shoes, but quickly turns back to the stove to boil a pot of water. Cas hadn't wondered why Dean might invite his brother's counsellor for lunch at his house, but it seems he's here for the same reason Cas is: he's lonely.

Cas fills the silence, telling Dean pointless things about his time at college, a little about his sister, not much about the rest of his family. Dean perks up a bit, too. He talks very enthusiastically about his dream to open his own garage, he's suitably outraged when he learns that Cas hasn't even got a driver's licence.

All worries and concerns are gone from Cas' mind as the two of them chat and eat a simple but delicious lunch of penne and homemade tomato sauce together. Dean blushes when Cas compliments his cooking skills and for almost an hour Cas is dumb enough to actually believe that something good is happening.

The peace comes to an end when the front door opens and Sam steps inside. His hands are stained with dried paint, there's a streak of it on his cheek, and he's bundled tightly in his coat, still shivering from the outside. He halts suddenly and it clearly takes a moment for him to register what he's seeing: his brother and his school counsellor having lunch together.

"What the _fuck?"_ he cries. He points an accusing finger in Cas' direction. "You totally are stalking me!" He turns to Dean. "What the fuck is he doing here? Are you on a shitting date? Are you fucking kidding me? He's my goddamn _therapist!_ What is _wrong_ with you, you freak? Go ahead and talk shit about me because I. Don't. Care!"

Cas blinks and Sam storms by in a blur, the heavy slam of a door rattles the apartment.

Dean is up on his feet, heading after Sam. He pauses and looks at Cas with a mournful expression on his face. "I'm _really_ sorry about this."

Cas shakes his head. "No, I probably shouldn't have accepted your offer. It was… inappropriate."

Dean shrugs. "It was just lunch." He raises his voice so Sam might hear and says, "It was not a date!"

Cas grabs his coat off the back of the chair and stands up, stepping slowly around Dean and closer to the exit. "I should get going."

"Okay. Well, it was nice getting to know you," Dean says, smiling genuinely despite the tired lines of his face.

"Yeah," Cas agrees. He flinches when something thuds and smashes in the other room. Dean hurries down the hall and yelling ensues, loud and angry enough that it makes little sense to Cas, although he hears plenty of cursing from Sam.

Not waiting any longer, Cas quietly lets himself out.

He's sitting on the bus, halfway home, when he realises he left his groceries in Dean's car.


	3. Months and months in the making

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check all the story tags for warnings!

The alarm goes off at 7am, blaring right in his ear, grating at his skin. Sam shudders, rolls over, and blindly slaps at his bedside table until the sound goes off. It seems like only a few seconds before it starts shrieking again.

Sam pushes himself up and glares at the clock. In the next second, the wire is yanked out of the socket and the clock is impacting with the wall. Sam plants his face back into his pillow.

Two hours. That's how long he slept last night. Only _two fucking hours._

He closes his eyes and curls his leg around the duvet, hugging it close. It's cold that morning, but Sam is still hot and covered in dry sweat from tossing and turning all night long. He wonders if he can convince Dean he's sick, maybe he won't have to go to school.

"Sammy? Are you up?" Dean's voice calls through the bedroom door. Sam peels one eye open and taps his phone where it lies on a used sock on the floor. 8.30am.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

Sam kicks off his covers frantically and hurls himself out of bed. Then he notices, his torso and arms are bare. He must have taken of his sweater during the night. There's another knock at the door and Sam knows that he only has a few seconds before Dean lets himself in. He all but stumbles onto his dresser, hands rummaging through the drawers. He has way too many short-sleeved tees that he hasn't worn in months. All of his sweaters and long-sleeved tops are dirty and heaped across his carpet.

He can hear Dean sigh in the hallway, the floorboard creaks. Fuck. He's coming in. Sam grabs one of the sweaters off the floor and yanks it over his head, tucking his arms securely into each sleeve. He just manages to get the fabric over his wrists when Dean walks in.

Dean is already dressed in his greased overalls for work. His eyes go wide at Sam's half-dressed state.

"Did you only just get up _now?"_

Sam grabs a pair of jeans from the back of his desk chair and hops about trying to get them onto his legs.

"You've got to be at school in fifteen minutes!" Dean says. He picks Sam's backpack up off the floor and begins rounding up the text books and papers.

"I know!" Sam snaps.

"If you mess up one more time, Miss Harvelle won't be giving you any more chances!"

"I know!"

"You can't get kicked out of school, Sam!"

"I _know!"_

He finds a clean pair of socks in the laundry basket outside the bathroom and slips them on as he brushes his teeth. Dean lingers in the hallway with Sam's school bag over his shoulder.

"Okay. I'm driving you to school."

"What about the garage?" Sam asks, spitting mouthwash.

"Bobby won't mind me being a little late."

Sam dashes out of the bathroom and into the main room. His sneakers and jacket are on the couch. He fumbles with the laces; his fingers are shaking and it makes it near impossible to tie them. Dean is waiting by the door, tapping his foot. Sam gives up on his shoes and runs out of the apartment with his sneakers half-hanging from his heels. He ties them in the car as Dean tears down the road.

"Did you eat anything?"

"No time."

Dean reaches over into glove compartment and retrieves a Mars Bar, dropping it onto Sam's lap. "Eat your breakfast," he says.

Both of them are in such a hurry that it even takes Sam a minute to realise which route they're taking. He freezes in his seat, nails digging into the leather.

"Dean, stop the car."

"What? Why?"

"Dean, please! Please, we have to go back! Please stop!"

Dean blinks ahead, then he finally seems to realise where he's going. He stamps on the brake and the wheels shriek as they come to a halt. "Shit!"

Sam has one thought on his mind. _I don't want to be_ here. He doesn't care that there's traffic building up behind them, he doesn't care that he has to be at school in five minutes, he doesn't care what Dean is saying to him.

He can't hear it.

All he can hear is his father's voice, the grind of tires trying to grip onto the icy road, the feeling of his entire body hurtling upside-down, the blinding pain of his bones cracking. Then, the cold and the silence.

Sam scrambles for the door and tumbles out onto the asphalt. He picks himself back up and sprints back the way they came. He's not sure how long he's been running for when he slips and crashes to his knees at the side of the road, beside him the cars are honking, drivers are staring.

He glances around, there are mostly just trees and fields surrounding this road, but he can see the roofs of houses not far away. He looks back and sees that the cars are moving again. Dean must have left. Sam doesn't really blame him.

Sam tries to get back up but his knees ache and sting. He settles himself down onto a tree stump and inspects the damage. The denim is torn and stained bloody, his skin is scraped raw and caked with mud. He bites down on his lip, tries to push back the lump in his throat. His vision blurs and his eyes sting, a single warm tear drips down his cheek. He hastily wipes it away with his sleeve.

"Sam! Sammy!"

The impala is parked haphazardly across the road and Dean is dashing in front of cars, nearly getting run over in the process. He slides on the ice but manages to steady himself, then he tiptoes carefully through the mud to Sam. He crouches down and puts a hand on Sam's cheek.

"Hey, Sammy. It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I didn't notice which road it was. Believe me, I didn't want to upset you."

Sam swallows thickly and nods. Luckily, no more tears fall.

"I'm fine. Seriously, Dean. I'm sorry I spazzed out on you."

Dean stares at him for a moment, mouth half open. "But, Sam," he sputters, then glances down and catches sight of Sam bloodied knees. "You're hurt. I'll call school for you, tell them you're sick."

Staying home sick sounds less appealing than it did when he woke up that morning. He's not sure he likes the idea of Dean hovering over him all day.

"No," Sam says, maybe a little too quickly. "Really, Dean, I'm fine. I can go to school."

Dean looks like he wants to protest but he simply nods.

"Besides," Sam points out, "I can't make you miss work."

Dean nods. "Fine. But we're going home so you can get cleaned up and changed. I'll call school and tell them you'll be in a little late."

"Hopefully Harvelle buys it, right?"

Dean frowns. "She won't punish you for this, Sam."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You think she won't mind that I almost caused a pileup for no fucking reason?"

"Sam, it wasn't for no reason. It was my mistake and – "

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Sam snaps.

The look on Dean's face makes him feel a little sick to know he's the one who put it there. Dean looks so exhausted, eyes too dark for someone who's only twenty-one years old. How much better could Dean's life have been if Sam had just gone into the system when their dad died? Dean wouldn't have needed to drop out of college. He would have been happy.

Dean offers his hand and Sam lets him pull him to his feet. The ride back to the apartment is quiet, an unknown pop song on the radio fills their silence. As soon as they're back home, Dean herds Sam into the bathroom.

"No offense, Sam, but you don't smell like daisies," he says. He stays in the hallways until Sam shuts the door, and then he waits until the shower is running before he walks away. Sam presses his ear to the door and listens to Dean's feet creak over the floorboards, towards the living room. He can hear Dean on the phone but his voice is too muffled to make out what he's saying.

Sam knows it's him that's being talked about. Well, of course, Dean said he would call the school. But it's more than just calling in late. Sam knows that Dean is talking about how messed up he is, that's one of the hottest topics of conversation among students at his school, there was even an entire article written about him in the school's gossip magazine that the teachers know nothing about.

Sam Winchester is fucked up. That was the gist of it.

He's unsure how long he lingers by the door trying to make out what his brother is saying. Eventually, he gives up and strips down. He avoids looking down, as he usually does. He's skinnier than he used to be, but he doesn't care that much about his weight, he doesn't care much about food either. It's his arms that he avoids. He knows what they look like, he's stared at them enough to know the look of them by heart, he'd be able to re-draw every detail perfectly. He's equal parts obsessed and ashamed.

* * *

The thing is, Sam knows that he's gone insane.

He didn't used to be like this. Just over a year ago, he was like any other kid. He slept around eight hours a night, he had a family, he could get into cars without his hands shaking, he was in almost every club in school, he was a straight A student, he had close friends he'd known since he was four years old, he had a sound mind.

He doesn't have any of those things anymore.

As Dean drives Sam into school at 10am, everyone is outside during break. Of course, there are plenty of people around to witness his walk of shame. A group of girls catch sight of him and begin to giggle amongst themselves, his old soccer team glare at him. They'll never forgive him for costing them a spot at nationals, dead dad or no. Well, maybe defacing the team captain's car also has something to do with their anger.

Dean leans over and pats Sam on the shoulder as he climbs out of the passenger seat.

"I'll be working late tonight so you'll have to get the bus home. You've got money, right?" Dean says.

Sam doesn't even have one cent, but there's no point worrying Dean about that. "Yeah, I've got money."

Dean forces a tired smile. "Call me if you need me."

Sam nods. He knows he won't be calling Dean even if he gets impaled by one of the javelins in the school's gym closet. Dean starts the engine, he doesn't start driving, instead he pokes his head out of the window.

"Remember you're supposed to see Mr Novak first thing."

Sam rolls his eyes. It's Monday morning, not Wednesday afternoon. Sam would rather have a meeting with a hungry great white than Mr Novak.

Dean sighs. "Come on, Sam. I only made the guy lunch to say thanks. It wasn't a date."

"Sure," Sam shrugs.

"I mean it. You were only pissed at me for a day, why are you still pissed at him?"

"Why do you care so much? Besides, I only stopped being pissed at you because I have to live with you. I don't have to be friends with him."

"Sam, this is ridiculous. It wasn't a date!" Dean barks. Sam looks around self-consciously and, sure enough, people are staring.

"Could you please go now?" Sam begs, ducking his head. Dean looks like he has plenty more to say but he keeps his mouth shut and peels out of the parking lot and out of sight.

Sam considers going straight to class and avoiding Mr Novak, but as he climbs the stairs to the main entrance, Miss Harvelle appears. She holds out a hand and places it on his shoulder. He almost flinches away from the gentleness of it, the soft look in her eye makes him want to be sick. He wants to tell her to stop looking at him like he's the saddest thing in the world.

"I'll take you down to Mr Novak's office, dear," she says. Sam pauses, but quickly manages to catch up to her. She never calls any of the students in this school 'dear'. A coil of dread settles in his stomach.

Why does he need to see Mr Novak? Why is the principal escorting him there? Does she not trust him to go there by himself?

Sam has envisioned scenarios like this one countless times. Sometimes, he's in bed when they come for him, sometimes he's in school, but in every way he imagines this, it always ends with him strapped to a gurney, carted off by men in white scrubs.

They turn the corner into the corridor where Mr Novak's office is and Sam tries to clamp his shaking hands together. He lets out a breath at the sight of an empty corridor. No cops or orderlies prepared to cart him off to the looney bin.

"I don't want you to worry about missing the first two periods this morning," Harvelle says, "and don't worry about missing more classes today. You can speak with Mr Novak as long as you need and you can head back to lessons when you're ready."

Sam blinks dumbly at her. She nudges him gently towards the door. Sam finds himself with no other choice but to knock. Mr Novak appears immediately, he smiles at Sam and swings the door open wide. Sam glances over his shoulder, hoping for some sort of protection from Miss Harvelle, but she's already gone.

"Take a seat, Sam," Novak says, closing the door. He sits down behind the desk and waits patiently until Sam joins him. The first thing he says is, "how are you?"

Sam shrugs. "Confused."

"And why's that?"

"We have appointments on Wednesday afternoons, not Monday mornings. I don't understand why I'm here."

Novak's expression is irritatingly difficult to decipher. He wears the smallest smile, but other than that his face is blank.

"Well, Sam, your brother informed the school about what happened this morning and the principal and I thought it would be best if you would come and talk to me."

Sam rolls his eyes. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

"This is stupid," Sam says.

"Why do you think so?"

Sam huffs irritably. "Are you paid just to ask dumb questions? Do you even know anything? No offense, but I don't trust a school counsellor to fix my problems. So, what? You took a three-week course on basic psychology online and now you're qualified to tell people what to do?"

Novak's lips quirk. He looks amused.

"I have a college degree in psychology, if that puts you at ease," he points a thumb over his shoulder to where the degree is framed and pinned on the wall.

"Oh," is all Sam can manage. He pauses. "Why do you work in a high school in the middle of nowhere then? You could have had a fancy office in the city."

"I've never seen the appeal of the city nor fancy offices," Novak replies.

"So," Sam says awkwardly, the same thing that's been on his mind all weekend is all he can think of right now. "Are you dating my brother?"

Novak's smile drops. "I assure you, I'm not. He made a friendly offer and I accepted. It was a mistake, I realise now, it was unprofessional. I certainly did not want to upset you."

Sam chews the inside of his cheek and contemplates. "My brother said the same thing. Swear you're telling the truth."

"I swear," Cas doesn't miss a beat. Sam studies his face for a moment before deciding to believe him.

"It would have been majorly awkward if the guy who I'm supposed to tell my deepest, darkest secrets to was banging my brother."

Cas clears his throat, just managing to cover a choke. "Sam, I'm glad you've gotten that off your chest, but there's a reason you're here to talk to me this morning."

"Right," Sam agrees. "What if I don't want to talk about it?"

"I can't force you to do anything, Sam, but I hope you will let me help."

Sam shrugs. He tries to turn his thoughts away from last December and every horrible thing that happened that night after school. These memories come to him like creeping shadows, ready to engulf him in the dark. They caress him at night and rouse him from sleep, the play out in front of him while he's eating lunch, when he's with Ruby, when he's walking home from school.

They're more painful than is imaginable. There are few things that make them go away.

Sam could tell Novak all of these things, instead he says, "There's nothing to talk about."

Often, at night when he should be sleeping, Sam is awake, almost breathless with the sobs he plugs with his pillow, trying to avoid the dark shapes of his room, the particular shape at his desk which he suspects is his dad. These nights, Sam prays for Dean to come into his room and turn on the light and hold him in his arms, and when Dean really does walk by in the corridor and linger by Sam's room, Sam also prays that Dean will go away.

He craves comfort and solitude in equal amounts. He can't have one or the other. Solitude is simpler.

"Do you know what a trigger is, Sam?" Novak asks, snapping Sam out of his thoughts.

"No."

"Well, a trigger is something that sets off a strong memory, or a flashback, to a situation that was particularly traumatising. Triggers are very personal and are different for everyone. Sam, did you experience a memory or flashback on the road today?"

"No," Sam lies. He's not crazy. Well, he is, but no one else can know that.

"Okay," Novaks says slowly, jotting something down in his notebook. "Maybe you didn't experience a flashback, but the memories the road evoked were difficult ones, yes?"

"Clearly," Sam says bluntly.

"Are there any other things you avoid other than the road?"

"Our old house, Benny's Diner, the soccer team," Sam answers before he can stop himself.

"Do you have any ideas why you avoid these things?"

Sam sighs. He's tired of hiding all the time. There are some things that even he has to set free.

"The night that – " he gulps, takes a breath, and starts again. "The night that it happened, my dad picked me up from soccer practice, we went to Benny's for dinner, then we were headed home. We got into an argument at Benny's because he wouldn't let me go to some dumb party, we were still arguing in the car and then – "

He clears his throat. "Well, you know the rest."

Mr Novak's expression is carefully schooled.

"It's not uncommon for people to avoid things that cause them anxiety or stress," he says. "And sometimes, avoidance can be positive as it keeps us away from unwanted feelings or memories. But in the long run, avoidance only makes the problem worse."

* * *

"Where have you been?" Ruby demands. It's lunch hour and Sam has finally been released from Mr Novak's clutches. The first thing he does is make a dash for the bleachers where he knows he'll find Ruby.

Sam shrugs nonchalantly. "Just around."

Ruby raises one eyebrow and puts her hands on her hips. "Meg saw you get dropped off by your brother at ten this morning, she said you disappeared with Harvelle."

Sam shrugs again. "Harvelle has a thing for me, what can I say?"

Ruby grins and punches him in the shoulder, harder than you'd expect a girl her size to be capable of. Then, she grabs his hand and pulls him along after her, up to the top of the bleachers where Meg, Scott and Brady are lounging around like they own the place.

"He's alive!" Meg exclaims as soon as she sees him. She blows out a puff of smoke, her cigarette dangling between her fingers. "I thought for sure Harvelle had crucified you."

"I didn't see you in History," Scott mutters suspiciously. He doesn't look up, too busy tickling the flame of his lighter with his index finger.

"You weren't in English either," Brady adds, "and I thought you were gone for good."

Sam drops down onto the bench next to Ruby. "Nope. I'm still here."

"I'm glad. No offence to these guys but this place would be way duller without you," Ruby says. She pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her bag and offers one to Sam. Sam shakes his head.

"I'm on the straight and narrow, remember?"

Ruby raises an eyebrow. "You were serious about that? Who gives a fuck what Harvelle thinks?"

"Um, me? I kinda want to graduate from high school, Ruby."

Ruby rolls her eyes and mutters, "Pussy."

Sam can't say that's the first time she's called him that, among other things. He also can't say that it hurts any less.

The thing about Ruby and her friends is that they don't give two shits about anything, which is all kinds of awesome. One thing they don't give a shit about is what happened to Sam last winter. Almost everyone Sam comes into contact with gives him the wounded look, like just gazing at him is painful. When Sam's dad died, people stopped treating him like a person and started treating him like a charity case.

He couldn't take that from anyone anymore, not even from his best friends. He tries his hardest to avoid Charlie and Andy and the others, even flunking his AP classes just to get away from them, all but pretending he never knew them to begin with.

Even with Ruby's sharp tongue and quick temper, at least she treats him the same way she treats anyone else.

"Sam?" Ruby snaps. She's glaring at him hard enough to knock him over.

"W-what?"

"My party next week, are you coming?"

"Oh… I'm not sure. I'd have to ask my brother."

Ruby rolls her eyes again, she does that so much that it's surprising they both still look in the same direction. "Your brother isn't invited so what does it have to do with him?" she demands.

"Yeah, I know. It's just that I'm kind of grounded for the rest of eternity."

"Sam," Ruby sighs. She takes his hand and caresses her thumb over it. "Dean isn't your dad. You can't let him control you like this."

"He's not – "

" _Sam_ , you can make your own choices."

Sam thinks that maybe she has a point.

* * *

When the bell finally rings at the end of the day, Sam is the first out of his seat. He's in the corridor before it fills with students and he manages to navigate his way to his locker without being elbowed in the stomach. Once Sam has grabbed the text books he needs, he swings his locker shut.

Andy Gallagher is standing right next to him. Their lockers have been next to each other since the first day of high school. It used to be the greatest thing ever, now it's just plain awkward.

Finally, Andy realises Sam is there. He blinks at him, mouth hanging open. It's probably thrown him off a bit that Sam is actually looking at him.

"Sam, hey," Andy finally manages. "Um. How are you?"

Sam shrugs. "I'm fine," he answers. He considers just turning and leaving but it's actually nice talking to Andy again. "Uh. What have you been up to?"

Andy breaks out into a grin. "Ansem is being an asshole, as usual. He's totally stalking my girlfriend, by the way."

Sam smiles. "You have a girlfriend?"

"Yeah! She goes to the private school. I met her while I was camping with my parents this summer. Her name is Tracey and she's way out of my league, man."

"I'm sure you guys are great together," Sam insists.

Andy suddenly perks up. "Hey! I'm having the guys over on Friday night, we're gonna watch movies and eat way too much junk food. Do you think… do you want to come?"

Sam doesn't even get a second to think that offer over because Ruby seems to appear out of thin air and latches onto his arm. She stares at Andy like he's something caught on the bottom of her lace-up boot.

"There you are, Sam," she says, curling one hand around his. She sneers at Andy. "What are you doing talking to him?"

"I was just…"

Both Andy and Ruby stare at him expectantly.

Sam sighs. "Nothing. I wasn't doing anything," he mutters. "Can we just get out of here?"

Ruby beams up at him and grips his hand tighter in hers, then she stalks off down the hallway with Sam in tow. Sam just manages to glance over his shoulder before the doors swing shut behind him, but Andy is already lost in the crowd of students.

Meg, Scott and Brady are leaning against Brady's expensive silver Ford Taurus in the parking lot.

"I only just saved him," Ruby announces. "Sam was talking to that freaky Gallagher twin."

"Stalker or Star Wars stoner?" Meg asks.

"Meg, you're a stoner too," Scott points out quietly.

"And you like setting things on fire," Meg snaps back. She turns back to Ruby, questioning.

"Star Wars stoner," Ruby answers. She turns to Sam. "So, are we doing anything?"

Sam stares at his shoes, looking at anything but her. "I have to get home. Sorry."

Ruby sighs deeply. "Don't be such a pussy, Sam."

"Seriously," Sam grits out between his teeth, "I need to get going. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Ruby looks less than pleased but, thankfully, she doesn't push him any further. She gets up on her tip-toes and Sam leans down to receive the kiss. It starts as a peck but the next thing he knows, her tongue is caressing his, her arms are around his neck and her leg is curling around his thigh.

She pulls away with a wet smack of their lips and Sam nearly loses his balance. Brady lets out a wolf whistle, Meg feigns complete disinterest, and Scott is staring at them with sick fascination. Sam isn't entirely sure what he and Ruby are, if they're anything at all, but he can't deny that he thinks about her lips way more than is healthy.

"Bye," he manages, voice raspy. He begins to walk away, following the stream of students heading out of the school gates. He glances back, but Ruby is too busy hanging from Brady's arm.

* * *

It's a long way home by foot, especially in this frigid weather. He plugs in his iPod and lets his feet wander wherever they choose to go. The sun is beginning to set earlier and earlier lately and by 4pm it's beginning to get dark.

He stops and looks around. He's walking in the middle of a road, which is thankfully deserted, but this isn't just any road.

This is _the_ _road._

He can hear it, just under the bass line and guitar strumming in his ears, he can hear the screech of wheels trying desperately to hold onto the asphalt. Sam jerks around, but there are no cars. He pulls out his headphones and keeps moving. His breathing picks up, his heart hammers against his chest.

" _Sam, would you stop ignoring me?"_

He feels the bite of the wind on his cheeks, the tips of his fingers and nose are numb.

" _Sam, please. I don't want to fight, kiddo."_

Sam stops. His dad's voice, as clear as if he were standing right next to him. He looks around, just in case. Just in case his dad is hiding behind a tree, like he might pop out any moment and reveal that the past year was all just an elaborate prank.

He's alone, nothing but the empty road and the surrounding trees and fields for company. That, and the memories.

He didn't realise the car had crashed until he was hanging upside-down by his seatbelt. The moments before, when the car was skidding then tumbling, that happened far too quickly to register.

It had taken him fifteen full minutes before he realised his dad was dead.

" _Dad, I'm stuck. I-I think my arm's broken."_

It was hours before rescue came.

" _Dad! Dad, wake up!"_

Sam stumbles off the road and drops to his knees in front of a thick tree. It's totally stripped of bark at the bottom, a chunk of wood is missing, a small piece of metal is dented into it. Sam reaches out his shaking fingers and brushes them against the tree trunk.

This is it. This is the tree they crashed into.

All around the base of the tree are shards of red glass from his dad's truck's headlights. He finds the largest piece and pockets it. Once he manages to stop himself from crying, he gets to his feet and walks home.

* * *

Dean is fast asleep and snoring on the couch when Sam gets back. There are four empty bottle of beer on the floor and he's still wearing his work uniform. Sam drops his bag on the floor and tip-toes close. He considers waking Dean, instead he pulls the couch blanket over his brother's body and retreats to his bedroom.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Ruby has left seven text messages, none of which Sam replies to.

He can still hear his dad's voice. Even worse, he can also hear his dad's silence. He leaves his phone on his desk and drops down onto his bed.

Sam pulls up his sweater sleeves and examines the rows of tiny red cuts up and down both of his arms. Months and months in the making, a collection of sorts.

" _Dad, please wake up!"_

He pulls the headlight shard from his pocket and fiddles with it, it's sharp and scratches at his fingertips. Sam tilts it in the bedroom light, gazes at its glinting edges, then he directs the point of it towards his arm, a healed patch of skin near his elbow. He presses it down and drags. The memories retreat.


	4. "Apparently, I need to chill"

Once, when Dean had just turned ten years old, John Winchester took both of his sons fishing. Sam was a real runt at five - he remained a runt until he was fifteen when he finally shot up a whole foot over summer - and he used to waddle around on his stumpy little legs, tripping over every few steps.

They'd gone fishing out in the country, which wasn't so far to go considering the little town they came from. There was this big lake a short drive away, surrounded by little wood cabins and great oak trees, so ancient that the roots were giant and gnarled and expanded far enough that there was barely anywhere smooth for Sammy to walk without tripping up.

Their dad carried Sam on his hip, finally planted him back on his feet once they were on the pier. Dean remembers every word of the lessons John gave him; how to prepare your bait, how to know where the best spot to fish is, how to reel it in when you catch it. Sam, with his limited five-year-old attention span, only really listened to the part about impaling a worm on your hook, which sent him into a fit of tears, of course.

John had to give Sam one of the worms, which Sam named Wormy, using his limited five-year-old imagination to do so. He kept that worm for the entire weekend as a pet, which their dad was clearly regretting by dinner time when Sam plonked Wormy down next to his fork and tried to feed it mashed potatoes.

At the end of the trip, Wormy had gone missing. Sammy scribbled up a missing poster, handed them out to anyone he came into contact with, such as the old couple staying in the cabin next to theirs. To Dean it was clear what had happened to Wormy. Their dad denied being any part of the worm's disappearance, but Dean knew better.

Sam, being only five years old, had moved on from Wormy within a few days, and totally forgotten about him within a month.

The thing is, despite Wormy, and burned fish for dinner, and Dean actually falling in the lake at some point, this was one of the best times of Dean's life. Just him, his dad and Sammy. Simple.

It would be nice to one day go back to that lake. Just him and Sam. And their dad, he'd be there, somehow.

Dean smooths peanut butter over bread, dollops on the jelly, then fold the slices together and wraps them in plastic. He places the least wrinkled apple in their fruit bowl next to it, then fishes out a packet of chips from the back of the corner cupboard in the kitchen.

The whole time he does this, he watches Sam.

Sam is actually eating the cereal Dean put in front of him earlier that morning, rather than poking it with his spoon like he usually does. He's hunched over one of his school books, and every few seconds his phone pings with a message that makes him break out into a grin. Dean can't help grinning too, Sam is acting more like himself lately.

He thinks, maybe that fishing trip isn't so far off.

Dean glances at the clock above the fridge, he'll have to leave for work in fifteen minutes. "I'm picking you up after your book thing tonight," he reminds Sam. Sam makes an affirmative grunt. His phone buzzes again and his attention is pulled away from his cereal, thumbs darting expertly across the screen.

"Who're you talking to?" Dean asks. It's been a long time since Sam has shown any sign of having any real friends. He hasn't heard any mention of Andy or Charlie in a long time.

Sam's smile drops and he positions his hands so they cover the phone's screen. "Uh. No one."

"You seem to be getting a lot of texts."

Sam shrugs. "It's just Ruby."

Dean waggles his eyebrows. "Ruby, huh? How long have you guys been, uh, friends?"

Sam shrugs again. "Dunno. A while."

Dean straightens his face, tries to think back to how their dad first handled the girlfriend thing with him. "Are you and Ruby… you know?"

Sam's expression hardens. "Dean, even if we were, it wouldn't be any of your fucking business," he snaps, pushing away his half-empty bowl of soggy cornflakes. "So much for privacy."

And with that, he grabs his book and school bag and is out of the door in a flash, one arm through his jacket sleeve as he goes, not so much as another glance in Dean's direction. The lunch Dean made for him is left sitting on the counter.

"Small steps," Dean tells himself, feeling a little like he's been slapped across the face. "It's progress."

* * *

Hunkered over a rusted old 63' Corvette, Dean dismantles the engine. This one's a lost cause, something the owner can't afford to fix, but the pieces of her that are left might keep other cars going on the road. It's a shame. She was a beautiful car.

Garth, who is dawdling more than working, pats the roof. "Old cars like these are real works of art, huh?"

Dean can't disagree with him there. He stands up straight and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"You got a '67 Impala, right?" Garth says, pointlessly, because he's seen Dean's car every day since he's been working here. Garth is the runt in the garage, popped fresh out of high school only a year after Dean. Dean's been going to this garage his whole life, spent a lot of time growing up perched on the counter watching his dad do what Dean's doing right now.

"Sure is," Dean says. "She's still in her prime, thanks to me."

Garth is fiddling with a wrench, his lanky fingers barely keeping a grip on it. Bobby strides over from the office and grabs Garth's wrist, causing him to yelp as the wrench clatters to the ground.

"I ain't paying you to mess around," Bobby barks. He takes a hold of Garth's collar and turns him in the direction of the office. "I've got a lot of paperwork in there that need sorting," he says, giving Garth a firm shove.

He turns to Dean once Garth is out of earshot and says, "I'm not sure why I keep that damn idjit around."

"I think you've got a soft spot for the kid," Dean admits.

Bobby scoffs. "Nothin' soft about me," he says. "And who are you calling kid, kid? You're only a year older than him."

Dean smiles and continues his work. Bobby lingers quietly for a moment.

"How are things, Dean?" he finally asks, as if he's been wanting to say it for a while. "Is Sam doing okay? Are _you_ doing okay?"

Dean stands up straight and chews his lip. "I think things are getting better," he says hesitantly. "Sammy's doing better in school, been going in every day since the suspension. He's still moody, but he's teenager so it's kind of expected. I dunno, Bobby, but things might be looking up."

Bobby's brows are pinched. "That's good to hear," he says, "but, Dean, just keep an eye on him, okay?"

"Yeah, Bobby. I always do."

"I just mean," Bobby sighs, "that maybe… sometimes, things seem better."

"Right…" Dean says, confused.

"I worry that this is more than grief or rebellion," Bobby admits. "I just think that maybe you're hoping a little too hard that things are alright."

"Look, Bobby. I know my brother. We both lost the same thing, we're both handling it in different ways, but Sam is doing _better_ , alright?"

Bobby nods. "I know, son. I'm just worried is all."

"Well. Don't worry. We'll be fine," Dean says with a smile. "Promise."

"The kid's been through a lot, Dean. You don't just get over something like that. Just keep an eye on him, okay?"

* * *

 _6.37pm, December 15_ _th_ _. Unknown number._

" _Dean Winchester? This is Samuel Colt Hospital, there's been an accident."_

_Breaking the speed limit._

" _I'm very sorry, Mr Winchester. It was over very quickly for him, he didn't suffer."_

_Weak knees._

" _Dean. Dean! I know it hurts, boy, but your brother needs you. Sam needs you."_

_Goddamn clowns painted on the walls of the children's ward._

" _Sam? Sammy, please say something. You need to breathe. Look at me, Sam!"_

_The lump of a broken bone straining under bruised skin._

" _We'll need to perform surgery on his arm. Don't worry, it's a minor procedure. He'll be in and out in no time."_

_Hazel eyes, glazed over and struggling to stay open._

" _You rest now, Sam. You'll be good as new soon. Things'll be alright, won't they, Dean?"_

_A baseball cap clutched in Sam's hand, Bobby's thumb brushing the kid's hair from his eyes._

" _Bobby, Dean. Please, I want to go home now."_

_Paperwork, the morgue, throwing up all over Bobby's feet._

" _There you go, kid. It's gonna be okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You boys still got me, you hear?"_

_Button up shirts and clipboards. Social services._

" _Please, no. Don't take him. You can't take him from me. Sammy's all I've got left now. I'm all he has. I'll be his guardian, I can do it, you'll see. I can do this, just don't take him."_

_The silent emptiness of the drive home._

" _We'll be okay, Sammy. You'll see. We'll be alright."_

* * *

Sam – Dean should have known – is not waiting at the school after his goddamn book club meeting at 4pm. In fact, Dean waits for a solid thirty minutes before heading into the school to look for his flaky little brother. The janitor, who is mopping the floors in the deserted cafeteria with rock music playing on his IPod loud enough for Dean to hear, actually knows Sam, but he hasn't seen him since school ended an hour ago. Even worse, the janitor is the only person still wandering the hallways, as far as Dean can tell, and there's no one else to ask. Dean rings Sam a few times, the first couple ringing through to voicemail, the last three cutting out as soon as he dials his number.

Sam is purposefully avoiding him, then. Smart, considering Dean is going to kick the little brat's ass as soon as he finds him.

He says as much in one of the voicemails he leaves for him.

"You better call me back, Sam. I'm serious. Seriously pissed, and kind of losing my mind here. At least text me to let me know you're okay?" he says before deciding to call it quits. Sam is sixteen years old, Dean was off galivanting on his own when he was younger than that. Still, Dean can't suppress the horrific scenes playing in his head.

He leaves Sam one final text to add to the 28 others he sent in the last five minutes. _Call me back._

It's getting darker outside, almost pitch black before 5pm. Winters here are a bitch, cold and dark and miserable, leaving the trees bare and the roads slippery with ice. He should be heading home. He has laundry to do, he has to make dinner, he has to sort through their mail, he has to fix the leaky faucet in the kitchen, he has to make sure Sam gets his homework finished.

He's on his way towards the exit when he passes the trophy cabinet.

"No way," he says, breaking out into a grin. It's been three years since he graduated high school, but for some reason it feels so much longer. There, nestled between a gold cheerleading trophy and silver baseball cup, is a photo of his wrestling team. He doesn't look much younger than he is now, although his hair is a little younger and his smile is a little brighter. The kid in this photo doesn't look as old as Dean feels.

"I've never been much of a sports person myself."

Dean almost trips over his own feet, just managing to grab the top of the cabinet to steady himself. Mr Novak is standing there with a mug that says _Accio Coffee_ in his hand. Coffee sloshes onto the polished floor as he rushes forward to help.

"I am so sorry," he says, a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Dean smiles. "I'm fine. No harm done."

Cas pulls his hand away once Dean is steady, and looks down at the mess on the floor, lips pressing together. "I should clean this up," he says, holding his still-dripping mug at arm's length. Dean crosses the hall to the nearest bathroom and grabs some paper from one of the stalls. When he gets back, Cas is frowning at a coffee stain on his sweater.

"So, _Harry Potter_ , right?" Dean says, gesturing to the mug. He crouches down and spreads the toilet paper over the mess, watching the coffee soak into it.

"Oh," Cas looks at the mug like he'd forgotten he'd been holding it, "Yeah. Guess I'm a bit of a fan. I've read all the books… well, you don't need to know how many times I've read them."

Dean chuckles. "Same thing with my little brother. I remember standing outside of Barnes and Noble in the city at midnight when the last one came out. The little nerd read it in two days, didn't put it down for a second, not even when we were eating dinner. Fork kept missing his mouth."

Cas smiles, but doesn't say anything. He takes a wad of tissue and uses it to dry his mug before he sets it down on top of one of the lockers. He gets to his knees beside Dean and wipes up splashes of coffee.

"So, uh, you working late?" Dean asks. He's never done so well with silence, and he already knows Cas is a quiet person based on their not-date. He's quiet in an interesting sort of way, he's a listener more than a talker.

Cas nods. "Yeah. Just doing some little things here and there," he says. He turns to face Dean. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for Sam. Haven't seen him, have you?" Dean says, not allowing himself to hope for a good answer. Usually, when Sam doesn't want to be found, he won't be.

"Not since school finished at three," Cas says. He collects the wet tissue and dumps it in a nearby trash can. "Have you tried calling any of his friends?"

Dean snorts. "It'd be helpful if I knew who his friends were. The kid is a total mystery to me these days. A year ago, I'd know who to call, but now… I don't know. I wouldn't even be in this mess a year ago."

Cas sighs. He's quiet for a moment before finally saying, "Have you considered taking him to a doctor?"

Dean blinks. "A doctor? Unless a doctor put a tracking device on Sammy, I don't know how that would help."

"I don't mean…" Cas shakes his head. "I mean, in the long term. Sam told me he hasn't been to see a doctor. I think it would really benefit him to talk about things."

"Isn't that what you're for?" Dean says, climbing to his feet. "Talking about feelings and crap."

"This isn't just feelings," Cas says, expression suddenly turned very serious. "This is about his mental health."

"But… he's been doing okay. He's doing better in school," Dean insists. "Besides, this isn't _mental health_ , Sam isn't like that."

"Like that?" Cas asks curiously.

"He's not a crazy person," Dean clarifies. "Sam's smart, you know."

Cas' smile is kind. "Mental illness doesn't make a person crazy. It's actually a lot more common than you might think. On average, one sixth of people will experience depression in their lifetime. I've had many students suffering from depression come to me, but the most I can do is encourage them to visit a doctor. I had a session with Sam yesterday and suggested this to him, but he told me he wasn't interested."

"He never mentioned it," Dean says.

Cas nods. "I didn't think he would. He seemed quite against the idea." He sighs. "Dean, I don't want to overstep, but I think this is important and I need to at least suggest to you that Sam sees a doctor. Depression is treatable – "

"Hey," Dean cuts him off, feeling a sudden burst of irritation. Sam is _his_ responsibility, not Cas'. "This… this isn't – this is just grief, okay? Sam's been through a whole ton of shit, but this is just grief. Hell, I'm grieving too, but we're getting though this."

"There is a difference between grief and depression," Cas says calmly. "Grief is a normal process in response to a loss, depression is an illness."

Dean bites the inside of his cheek and thinks of Sam. Sam, never once crying, always quiet, never laughing or smiling, always running away, so different to who he was before the accident. With a deep sigh, he bunches up the wet paper in his hands and drops it all into the trash can. He scratches the back of his head.

"I guess… maybe I suspected something like that. I don't know," he says quietly. "But maybe I just didn't want to think about it."

"That's understandable," Cas says, but Dean still feels guilty. He's supposed to know these things when it comes to Sam. Even Bobby noticed first, Dean just didn't want to hear it.

As soon as his phone buzzes in his pocket, Dean quickly grabs it. It's a message from Sam.

_Chill, dude._

Dean takes a deep breath. A mirthless chuckle bubbles out from his gut and after a moment he's folded in half and laughing like he might never stop. He feels a hand on his upper back and Cas says his name gently, like he's worried Dean might snap if he speaks any louder. Well, too late for that.

"Are you alright?" Cas says for the third time, his hand is now on Dean's shoulder.

Dean holds up his phone so Cas can see the screen. "Apparently, I need to _chill_ ," he says, wiping tears from his eyes. He takes a deep breath, hoping he'll be calm after, but he just bursts into another fit of laughter. Cas takes his elbow gently and steers him into one of the nearest classrooms.

He gets Dean to sit at a desk, then he closes the door and begins to rummage around the teacher's desk drawers.

"A-ha," he mutters, pulling out a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He pours a little into the glass and places it in front of Dean, saying, "I'm not a drinker but I know when alcohol is needed."

Dean sips, face scrunching as it burns the back of his throat. "Whose classroom is this?"

"Rufus' – I mean, Mr Turner," Cas says with a conspiratorial smile. "He'll not be happy when he sees some of it missing, but he'll never know who it was. Not like he can complain about it without getting in trouble."

Dean's cheeks still ache and he's grinning like a maniac, but at least he isn't laughing anymore. "Never took you for someone so sneaky. It's kinda impressive."

Cas blushes and sits down at the desk next to Dean. They're quiet for a moment as Dean finishes of his drink.

"Are you okay now?" Cas finally asks.

"I'm fantastic, man," he says softly, staring at the empty glass. "My dad died so I had to drop my college plans to look after my little brother, now I'm working full time, elbow deep in grease nine hours a day, and I'm so exhausted that I want nothing more than to face plant into my pillow when I get home, but I can't."

He wishes he could stop talking but now that he's started there's not sign of stopping. "I have to make sure Sam does his homework, then I have to make his dinner. I have to do bills and taxes and I'm _still_ sorting out all of my dad's things because the man never bothered with a will. On top of that, I haven't had sex in _months_. Months, Cas. I'm a fucking spinster and I'm only 20. Next thing, I'll be getting a cat."

Surprisingly, Cas smiles. "I have a cat," he says.

Maybe that's it, or maybe it's the fact that Dean has been thinking about Cas since first moment he saw him, or maybe it's the sudden burst of lunacy that has Dean leaning across the gap between the desks and catching Cas' lips. Cas freezes for a second, clearly taken off guard, but it doesn't take long for him to melt into it.

Cas slips out from behind the table and grips the back of Dean's neck, pulling himself closer. The plastic chair Dean is sitting on digs into his back as he presses into him. Their lips fit and slide together, tongues tasting tentatively and –

Dean quickly rears back, hands still gripping Cas' shoulders.

"I'm so sorry," he says, looking anywhere but at Cas. "Jesus. I'm a horrible person."

Cas straightens himself up, his tongue slides across his lips and he clears his throat. "No. It – it was unprofessional of me. And immoral. You're upset and I took advantage of that."

"You didn't take advantage, Cas. I pretty much pounced on you." Dean drops his head into his hands. "At least you didn't just make out with your little brother's therapist."

"I'm a school counsellor, not a therapist… besides, I made out with my student's guardian."

Dean shakes his head, feeling nauseous. "You want to talk to me about how to help my depressed little brother and I manage to turn it into a make out session. I'm going to hell."

Cas chuckles. "As someone who has read the Bible from cover to cover more than once, I can tell you that you're certainly not going to hell. You're a very good person Dean."

"You don't know me all that well," Dean says, fiddling with the rim of the glass. "I suck as a parent. This isn't what my parents wanted for Sammy, I'm totally screwing everything up."

He closes his eyes as Cas' hand brushes his cheek, his palm rests there, warm and comforting. "You're only 21 years old, Dean," he says, "and you aren't Sam's parent, you're his brother. You didn't have to be his guardian, but you are. You took on an immense responsibility because you love your brother that much, you love him enough to make sacrifices. You're doing just fine."

Dean opens his eyes. "I _kissed_ you," he says. "I mean, we barely know each other. Sam would hate me even more if he knew."

"Sam doesn't hate you," Cas says surely. "And… maybe we are just acquaintances, but I have to say that I like you, Dean, and I - I'd like to be more than an acquaintance."

"Me too," Dean says. Cas is staring so intensely at him, Dean thinks he might start seeing everything in blue. He shakes his head clear and pulls away from Cas, getting to his feet. "But Sam… he wouldn't like it."

"I understand," Cas says. "I wouldn't want to upset him."

"Maybe - maybe if we waited," Dean suggests hesitantly.

"Waited?"

"To go on a date, I mean. Well, not that I assume you want to go on a date with me. I just mean we could wait until Sam's a little older and you're not his, uh, school counsellor anymore. Maybe then, he might be okay with it. He's not in such a good place right now and…" Dean pauses and his shoulders drop. "I'm beginning to feel extremely guilty."

"Don't feel guilty for the way you feel," Cas says gently and Dean automatically feels a little better. Everything about Cas is so… soft and gentle. He's the calm at the centre of Dean's storm. Cas continues, "But I agree, we should think of Sam first. If he would be upset by this, we should avoid it."

An awkward silence follows before Dean finally admits. "I don't want to."

Cas looks up with a puzzled frown.

"Avoid it, I mean. I don't want to avoid you," Dean says. "I just – I only met you a couple of weeks ago and you already make me feel the way no one else ever has. I haven't ever had a – well, been in a real relationship, and for the first time I think maybe I want one… this sounds really cheesy, doesn't it?"

Cas smiles. "I like cheese."

"Sam doesn't, he's lactose intolerant," Dean says with a laugh. "I mean it, though. I really do like you, I just don't want to hurt my brother."

Cas steps forward and cups Dean's face in his hands. He leans close and presses a long, soft kiss to his lips. When he pulls away he rests his forehead against Dean's and he says, "I don't mind waiting."

* * *

Dean grins the entire drive home, any stress he'd been feeling only earlier has been lifted. He feels so light, he could run a marathon.

" _I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you,"_ Dean sings along to one of his secret cassette tapes, belting out the lyrics off-tune at the top of his lungs. He touches his lips, can still taste coffee on them, and he breaks out into another grin. God, he's like a teenaged girl. He doesn't even care.

He pulls up in front of his apartment building and sees that their kitchen light is on. He turns off the music and suddenly the bright, cheery butterflies in his stomach drop. He'd almost managed to forget about the issue with Sam.

The walk up the stairs to their floor feels long and tiring, like his boots suddenly weigh a lot more than they really do. As soon as he steps through their front door he'll be thrown into another weekly shouting match.

Sam is kneeling in front of the fridge and staring at the contents like he's making the most important decision of his life. He looks up a little belatedly when Dean lets the doors slam closed behind him. Surprisingly, Sam breaks out into a grin.

"Hey!" he says. "Do you know if we have any squirty cream?"

Dean frowns and steps forward, taking in all the opened packets of food on the kitchen table – instant noodles, ham, Oreos, chips, bread. "You can't eat cream, Sam. You're lactose intolerant, remember?" Dean says. "Why else would I spend four dollars on soy milk every week?"

"Oh," Sam says, then honest-to-God _giggles_. "Lactose intolerant," he manages between wheezes, "Oh my God!"

Dean's eyebrows must be sitting in his hairline at this point. He moves over to close the fridge, then leans down to pull Sam to his feet. He pauses and sniffs the air. Earthy, thick, pungent, bitter-sweet and lingering all over Sam. Dean yanks Sam roughly to his feet and plants him in the nearest chair.

Sure enough, Sam's eyes are bleary and red.

"You have to be kidding me," Dean seethes.

Sam snorts trying to hold in more laughter.

"Smoking weed, Sam? Are you that dumb?" Dean yells.

Sam rolls his eyes as best he can manage. "Not a big deal. As if you've never done it before."

"It's a school night, Sam," Dean growls. "And where the hell were you tonight? You _knew_ I was picking you up, and you went off to get high?"

Sam sputters and falls into another round of giggles. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding anything but. "I dunno, I was waiting for aaages and Ruby called – "

"Ruby?" Dean decides he does not like this girl. And, Jesus, he's beginning to sound like his dad. Well, it's for Sam's own good. "I don't want you hanging out with her anymore. She isn't a good influence. You're supposed to be focusing on school, Sam. Have you done _any_ of your homework?"

Sam frowns, a little slow on the uptake. "That's not fair. You can't tell me who I can and can't see."

"A legal document naming me your guardian begs to differ," Dean snaps. "Your homework, Sam. Have you done it?"

Sam slumps in the kitchen chair, sleepy-eyed. "Nope."

Dean refrains from clawing his hair out of his scalp. He takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says, forcing calm. "No chance you're finishing homework like this, huh? Are you hungry?"

Sam nods.

"Yeah. Thought you would be," Dean mutters. He clears up the table and throws away a rather alarming sandwich that Sam must have crafted himself. He also snatches Sam's phone out of his pocket without the kid noticing and puts it out of reach on top of one of the cabinets, no chance Sam is getting it back any time soon. Sam, meanwhile, manages to occupy himself just fine by staring into space.

Dean fries up an omelette with a healthy amount of toppings – ham, mushrooms, onions, peppers and tomatoes, no cheese - and plates it up for Sam, who pretty much inhales it before asking for another one. By the time Sam is done eating, his eyes are drooping lower and lower.

"Come on," Dean sighs, pulling Sam to his feet and helping him, stumbling through the apartment, to bed.

"Thanks," Sam mutters into his pillow, eyes closed.

"Don't think we're done with this. I owe you a serious ass-kicking once you're sober enough to appreciate it."

Sam smiles, apparently not having heard. "I feel nice," he says, followed by a soft snore.

Dean pats the kid's head and pulls up the covers over his back. "'course you'd be a total lightweight, dumb ass," he whispers, leaning over to switch off the bedside lamp. As an afterthought, he plants a quick kiss on Sam's forehead. Not like the kid will ever know.

He leaves the door open a crack before heading back to the kitchen to make his own dinner. He settles in front of the TV with cup of instant noodles, and slides through the contacts on his phone, smiling where Cas inserted his number _in case Dean needed anything_.

His smile drops as his thumb lingers over Cas' name and he thinks of their conversation from earlier.

_Have you considered taking him to a doctor?_

Dean scrolls down and finds _Sammy_ near the bottom of the list. Then, he opens up google and types in _depression symptoms in teenagers._


	5. The kid who zipped his own mouth shut

When the sun rises the next morning, Cas feels like it's shining just for him. The alarm goes off on the bedside table and Cas can't even bring himself to be mad about it. He's been awake for an hour anyway, Balthazar cuddled up on his belly and purring into his chest. There's frost on the bedroom window and the morning sunlight catches onto it, shining like crystals. On a tree outside, a bird begins to sing.

It's a beautiful day.

"Just beautiful," Cas mutters, rolling out of bed despite Balthazar's protests. He stands in front of the window and stretches his arms up high, watching people leave their homes for work or to walk their dogs down the street.

There's no cereal or bread in his cupboards, he never seems to have any food around, but that's okay when all he can think about is freckles and green eyes and eyelashes tickling his skin. He's grinning like an idiot as he pours himself a cup of coffee and sits at the kitchen bench, reliving last night over in his head. He hasn't been kissed like that since… well, he's never been kissed like that.

It was the sort of kiss you see in a movie. In a rainstorm. At the head of a ship. As the world comes crumbling down around the two lovers. It's a kiss that stops time.

Balthazar jumps up onto the bench and flicks his tail, a sour look on his face that says _stop being so goddamn dramatic, would you?_

For some reason, Cas imagines Balthazar speaking with an English accent. Maybe it's the constant pessimistic tail-flicking and superior attitude. He scratches him behind the ears and fills up his bowl with kibble. Balthazar rubs himself appreciatively against Cas' legs before wolfing down his breakfast.

Finishing off the rest of his coffee, Cas scrolls through the news on his phone. Awful things are happening all over the world and for once Cas can't bring himself to dwell on it. He closes the news pages and watches a Youtube video of kittens learning to walk, their little legs too stiff and wobbly to get further than a few steps, and he chuckles all the way into the shower.

He sings under the spray of water, lets himself imagine Dean in there with him, imagines his touch in all sorts of places. His stomach flutters and he turns off the shower, blushing in the safety of his bathroom where even his cat won't see.

He's early for the bus. It feels colder this morning and he's pleased he'd thought to bring a scarf with him. The weather report this morning promises a sunny day, but predicted it will only get colder by the end of the week. He fishes his scarf out of his bag and wraps it around his shoulders and neck. His little sister knitted it for him a long time ago, spent months making it, and it's thick and long enough to warm two people.

That reminds him, he should call Anna later.

The bus arrives and Cas hops on, he smiles at the students he sees huddled at the back. They stare at him like he's crazy, only then does Cas realise he's still humming aloud. He shuts himself up and plugs his headphones in. He can't peel his goddamn smile of his face; his cheeks are starting hurt. He feels like a teenaged girl swooning over her first crush.

When was the last time he ever felt this way about someone? When was the last time the thought of someone made his heart flutter and his cheeks flush? Maybe never.

He spies Dean in the school parking lot and is a second away from going over to say hello, but then he sees Sam is there, too, with a sour look on his face. Neither brother looks particularly happy. Dean's shoulders are set in a way that indicates he's angry, and Sam is staring at the ground like he wants to sink into it. Of course, students are passing by, whispering to each other and smirking at the show the Winchesters are putting on.

Dean lightly shoves Sam's shoulder to get his attention and Sam's response is to yell, "Get a life, Dean!" loud enough for everyone in the parking lot to hear. He immediately seems to regret his decision and tugs the hood of his jacket over his head like it might make him invisible.

As much as he's curious, Cas decides it's not any of his business, or anyone else's for that matter. If Sam, or Dean, want to tell him about it, that's okay. If not, that's okay too. He ducks his head and heads straight inside.

Closing his office door against the hum of students milling about the hallways towards their classes is like letting out a breath after holding it for too long. The giddy happiness Cas woke up with this morning dulls a little as he thinks of the Winchester brothers arguing earlier, it fades even more when he thinks about the anti-bullying workshop he's supposed to be leading for the eleventh graders that afternoon. A lot of the students he works more closely with are in that grade. Charlie, Lily, Max, Sam.

He spends his morning perfecting the worksheets and printing off plenty of copies, then he grabs a cup of coffee and settles back into his office, opening up his contacts list. His sister's name is right at the top and he clicks dial.

"Hello?" is the breathless answer.

"Anna?" Cas says, suddenly alarmed. "What are you doing?"

He hears the phone shift from one of his sister's ears to the other, then she says, "Nothing. I'm just trying to get this damn crib together."

Cas sighs and rubs his forehead. "Anna. Put the screwdriver down. Let Paul put it together."

"Paul's at work. Besides, I'm going a little crazy here. Nothing is ready and the baby is coming in five weeks!"

Cas chuckles. "You've got plenty of time to put the crib together. Just wait until Paul gets home."

"I want it done now," Anna says, and Cas can practically _hear_ her pouting on the other end of the line.

"You're nesting," says Cas. "Why not fold the baby's clothes and put them in the drawers?"

"Done it already."

"Organise the toys by size," Cas teases.

"Done," Anna snaps. "I've done absolutely everything but put this stupid crib together."

Cas smiles. His little sister has always been a firecracker. _Do now, think later_ is likely her motto. While that's often got her into trouble, Cas has always admired Anna's sheer determination and carefree attitude. Sometimes he envies her for it.

"Annie," he says, "go lie down, okay? Watch a movie, take a bath, relax."

"I can't relax."

"Then go for a walk."

Anna is quiet for a second, then he can hear her grunt as she gets to her feet. "I can barely see my toes anymore," she says with a sigh.

"I'm sure you look positively glowing," Cas replies.

"I look like I ate an entire man," Anna laughs. "Besides, you don't know what I look like. I haven't seen you since August!"

"I'll be there for the birth. I promise."

"Mom's going to be there."

Cas sighs. "I figured."

"She'll calm down eventually, Cassie," Anna says. "She forgave me."

"I think being gay trumps getting pregnant out of marriage in Mom's books. She doesn't ever want to see me again, she said as much last time I saw her."

"Cas – "

"Look, Anna, I've got to get back to work. Make sure you relax a little, okay?"

Anna sighs. "Alright. We're not done talking about this, though."

His sister is always a woman of her word and there's no doubt this extremely pointless conversation will come up again. Cas quickly says his goodbyes and gets back to tweaking his slideshow presentation. Empathy is something he never learned from his mother, it's something he had to teach himself, and it's something he'll teach to these kids.

* * *

He's heading for the staff room to get another refill of coffee during lunch, only to realise halfway there that he left his mug back in his office. Outside, any signs of the bright day the morning had promised is swept away by grey clouds and spitting rain. Most of the kids will be spending their lunch break in the cafeteria or in empty classrooms, and even some lingering in the halls despite the signs on the walls that strictly prohibit loitering.

There are hushed voices coming from around the corner and Cas is prepared to shoo them away back to the cafeteria when he hears something he knows he shouldn't.

"He's a freak."

That stops him cold. That word is sharp as a knife, cuts just as deep, leaves wounds just as painful. Cas knows all too well. Maybe he should pounce on them now and give them a well-deserved lecture, but they aren't done talking yet.

"He used to be pretty normal," says another kid, a voice Cas recognises as Gordon Walker, the soccer captain and one of the highest-ranking students in his grade. "I used to be on the soccer team with him before he turned psycho."

"His dad died," another voice hisses. "Most people would go a little… weird, after something like that."

"Pfft. That's just an excuse," says the first voice. "My dad died, too, and I never went off the deep end. This girl in my biology class says she saw him talking to himself. He's, like, for real crazy."

"Do you think he'll end up in a mental hospital?" someone else says, sounding far too excited by the idea. Each word Cas hears is like a splash of icy cold water to his face. These are eleventh graders, the same kids he's supposed to educate about bullying in half an hour.

"He's in my gym class and he _always_ changes in the bathroom stalls. That's pretty weird, isn't it?"

"Sam Winchester is _crazy_. He keyed my car," Gordon says, distaste in his voice. "Let's just hope they finally kick him out of here for good."

Cas has heard enough. He steps around the corner and glares at them all with his arms crossed over his chest. There are four of them, Gordon's face the only one he recognises, but their _oh shit_ expressions are something he could relish in.

All he has to say is, "Follow me, please."

It's a voice he doesn't use often, low and commanding and enough to make even the soccer captain look pale. That's right, Cas thinks, you're all in deep shit.

"Did you…" one student ventures timidly. "Did you hear – "

"Everything?" Cas finishes. "Yes, I did."

"We didn't mean anything by it," another kid defends.

Cas purses his lips and keeps walking, only turning his head to check that they're all still following. They are, with their eyes to the floor and shame burning their cheeks. There's a certain look kids have when they sit outside principle Harvelle's office, like a man headed to the gallows, one kid is even shaking as he orders them to sit in the hard plastic chairs outside. He takes their names, scribbling them down on a pocket notepad, then he knocks on the principle's door.

Ellen is typing on her computer with one hand and eating a bag of chips with the other. She looks up when Cas enters and quirks an eyebrow.

"What's happened?" she asks, sounding more exhausted than anything. Cas eases the door shut and takes a seat.

He slides the names across the desk. "I just caught these students saying some very cruel and harmful things about another student."

"Which student?" Ellen asks, scanning the list.

"Sam Winchester."

Her mouth pinches and she nods. It takes up the rest of his lunch break as she talks to each of the students, with Cas standing by as the only reliable witness. In the end, all Ellen can do is sentence them to several weeks of detention. There's no point in making them apologise to Sam when he doesn't even know what's happened in the first place, telling him what they said would only cause more harm than good.

Cas hangs back, after the last of the offenders is ushered out of the principle's office, twiddling one of the buttons on his shirt and feeling like a failure. What's to stop those kids saying such cruel things again? What's to stop them from saying it to someone's face? Or worse?

"Your anti-bullying workshop seems to be scheduled at just the right time," Ellen says, taking off her glasses.

"They won't listen to me," he says, feeling helpless. He thinks of all the children here who dread coming to school for fear of other students. He thinks of himself in high school and all the horrible names that were spat in his direction. He thinks of children feeling like he did, alone and afraid and ready to bolt.

Ellen smiles gently. "Then, make them."

* * *

It's daunting having fifty pairs of eyes staring up at you, ready and waiting. Cas takes a sip of water and clears his throat. He scans the audience, pauses when he catches sight of Sam near the back. His eyes are on the floor rather than on Cas, there's a dark-haired girl leaning on his shoulder and despite that Sam still looks miserable.

"What is bullying?" Cas begins, voice carrying clearly across the room. As expected, there are only a few hands raised.

"When someone hits you?" one kid guesses.

"Maybe in some circumstances," Cas agrees. He taps his computer and the first slide comes on screen. "Bullying," he reads, "by definition, is unwanted, aggressive behaviour that involves a real or perceived power imbalance." He turns to the room. "Who here has ever been picked on by another person?"

More than half of the students in the room raise their hands.

"Who here has ever picked on someone else?"

No one raises their hand.

Cas smiles and paces the floor. "I didn't think anyone would own up to that. A lot of the time, you could be picking on, or bullying, someone and you might not realise. You could think it's all just fun and games. In a lot of cases, the bully has their own issues that they're dealing with. It's no excuse, but remember that we're all human, we can all be hurt no matter how tough we might seem."

He glances to the back of the rows of students again and finds Sam Winchester looking up, eyes locked on Cas.

"Kindness is a choice," Cas explains. "Sometimes it can be a hard one, surprisingly. Sometimes it takes courage. Before you speak, think. Think how you'd feel if someone said to you the same thing you're about to say about someone else. Think about how every action has a consequence."

He gazes around, eyes resting on Gordon for a second. "It's not a game anymore when someone drops out of school because of you." Cas takes in the entire room. "It's not harmless when someone decides to take their own life."

The room goes deathly quiet. Cas picks up the stack of papers he'd printed out that morning, piled neatly on the table beside him, and steps towards the front row, the sound of his shoes hitting the linoleum echo around the room, there's barely a whisper from his audience. Smiling, he hands the papers to a couple of the kids right at the front. "Pass these around, then get into groups of five and make a circle within your group."

* * *

The workshop lasts an hour and Cas is itching for a cup of coffee by the end of it. He stands by the double doors of the cafeteria as the students mill out of the room and into the hallway. He likes to think maybe he's made a difference, even if it's just a small one.

He likes to think he might have helped someone. Maybe even Sam.

"Remember that my office is open during morning break and lunch hour," Cas calls out. A few students give him a smile and a wave as they pass, most just ignore him.

"This was such a waste of time," one girl says, the same raven-haired girl on Sam's arm. Sam doesn't give her an answer and seems to be trying his best not to look in Cas' direction. Cas sighs. He has his meeting with Sam after school. Please, Cas thinks, let me help you. Sam ducks his head and dips around the corner, the girl in tow.

The hope that had been holding him up throughout the hour is finally draining away as Cas realises the students are leaving the room looking much the way they did when they came in. He wonders how many kids listened, if any. The bell sounds shrilly, high and pulsing down the hallways, signalling time to begin the final class of the day.

Cas jolts when a hand claps his shoulder.

"You can bring a horse to water, but you can't make it drink," Victor Henrickson, who'd been supervising the workshop, says unhelpfully.

"I like to think I could still help some of them," Cas replies.

Henrickson lets go and turns to face him. "It's nice that you care so much, Cas, most newbies do. After a while you'll learn that some kids will slip through the cracks and there's nothing you can do about it. Take Sam Winchester, for example."

Cas frowns. "I wouldn't call Sam a lost cause."

"Any other student would have been permanently suspended months ago, the only reason he's still here is because of what happened last winter. It's a tragic thing, Sam used to be a brilliant student, I even knew his father. But the road he's going down isn't a good one. I've been teaching a long time, and each year there's always been at least one student who ended up behind bars or in a morgue."

He takes in a breath at the last word. Cas can see it on his face, the way his eyes cast downwards, the feeling of failure, of some kid he knew that ended up in the ditch.

"Don't take too much of this onto your shoulders," Victor says. "That's all I'm saying."

He pats Cas' shoulder one more time and heads into the corridor. Cas steps out after him, the halls have cleared and there's only the two of them, he watches Victor walking away and says, "I've never been any good at giving up."

Henricksons shoulders stiffen in a way that Cas can tell his words stung, and he glances over his shoulder and gives the briefest of nods before disappearing around the corner, leaving Cas alone.

* * *

Sam walks through the door five minutes late with the sickly, dry smell of cigarettes clinging to his clothes. He drops down into his seat like he's just walked a hundred miles straight, eyes red and tired.

"Good afternoon," says Cas.

Sam's reply is a short nod. He's not in a talking mood today, that much is clear. Cas peers at him a little longer, mainly at his face which is ducked, eyes glued to his sneakers. Something is wrong, or more wrong than usual, that much is clear.

"How are you?" Cas ventures. Sam shrugs. It's a miracle the boy even turned up to the session. That fact is a hopeful one, it means Sam cares enough at least about his school career. He's here because he doesn't want to get suspended again. Or maybe he's here because he needs to talk, however hard it may be.

"Your brother came by the school last night," Cas says, and Sam looks up. "He was looking for you."

Sam shifts in his seat. "Uh. Yeah. He was supposed to pick me up, but I went to my friend's house. He's, um, kind of pissed at me."

This morning's display in the parking lot makes a little more sense. It's quiet between the two of them for a moment and Cas watches Sam, the way his shoulders hunch, the way his hair hangs over his eyes. He's heard so much from other teachers about what a great kid Sam used to be, as if they've tragically lost a chance at bragging about an Ivy League student. But Sam is still a great kid, Cas can see that, he's just lost.

Cas decides to start with something small, something that Sam might be able to talk about. "How are your classes going?"

Slowly, Sam lifts his head, eyes landing somewhere below Cas' gaze. "I thought your speech today – it was good," he says. "The one about bullying."

"Oh," Cas says, a little surprised by the change of subject. "Well, I'm glad."

Sam squints a little at the opposite wall. "Do you think – if your friends aren't nice people, does that make you the same?"

"No, I don't think so," Cas replies honestly.

"What if this person is a total asshole. I mean, like, ignoring real friends and saying mean things to people and – just being awful."

Cas frowns. "I'm not sure what you're getting at, Sam."

Sam shakes his head, dropping his gaze again. "Nothing. It's nothing."

"Sam," Cas says, stern enough to catch attention but soft enough to be kind. "Sam, is something wrong?"

"I just," Sam begins, but quickly stops himself. He's blinking furiously, knees bouncing. "Bad day, that's all. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something."

Cas slides a box of tissues across the desk, but Sam doesn't touch them. He's never seen him like this, so open and raw and vulnerable. Cas' chest is tight with worry, he wants nothing more than to reach over and hug the boy, or call his brother, but neither option will help. It will only drive Sam away.

"How often do you have bad days?" Cas asks gently.

Sam shrugs.

"Why are you crying, Sam?"

"M'not," Sam insists. When he looks up again, he's wearing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Classes are going fine, by the way. My grade's gone back up again in English. I got a B on my last paper."

Cas can't think for a moment, he just stares at Sam, who stares right back expectantly. Cas knows – he _knows_ – that Sam is desperate to talk. More than that, he's desperate for someone to listen. He can just about see the boy screaming behind his eyes. But Sam is afraid. Of what, Cas isn't entirely sure. It could be a number of things.

"Sam," Cas says, choosing his words carefully. "If something is wrong, you can tell me. I can help."

Sam's eyes flick from Cas to the wall behind him. He chews his lip, teeth pressing hard enough that it must hurt. Finally, he says, "You can't," then promptly gets up from his seat, slinging his school bag over his shoulder. In the next second, he's at the door, fingers at the handle. Cas glances at the clock to find that the session is over, and he thinks _it isn't enough_. Sam is different to his other kids. Sam needs real help, more than Cas can give him, and watching him disappear into the corridor without another word is like watching him slip through the cracks.

Cas dashes after him, catching up to him at a sprint at the end of the hall.

"Wait, Sam," he says, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam jolts and stares at Cas' hand like it's a spider, like he's ready to shake it off. Cas quickly pulls away and says, "Sam, I want you to know that I mean it when I say I'm here to help. Whatever you're going through, you don't need to go through it alone."

Sam raises an eyebrow at him. "No offense, Mr Novak, but I don't even know you. It's already awkward as fuck having to see you every week, I'd rather not spend more time in your depressing office than I have to."

"Sam, please," Cas isn't above begging.

"There's nothing wrong!" Sam spits.

Then why were you crying? Why are you pushing everyone away? What are you afraid of? Cas wishes he knew what to say, which magic words will make Sam drop the act and say _you're right, I need help._

Sam is taller than Cas is, taller than just about everyone in this school. And the hard look the kid is wearing would maybe be enough to intimidate even some of the teachers, but Cas doesn't see that. He sees a kid. A scared little boy.

When Cas doesn't say anything more, Sam turns on his heels and carries on down the corridor, pushing through the double doors and out into the parking lot. The doors fall shut with a heavy clang that makes Cas jolt.

He doesn't have enough authority as school councillor. He can try his best to listen, but he can't make students talk. He can't make things better just by being kind. This is his first real job and he's as lost as ever. Maybe he's just been winging it up until now. All he's ever wanted to do is help people who suffered like he did, to be there for kids in a way no one ever was for him.

He thinks of Sam, the kid who zipped his own mouth shut. He thinks, this kid won't end up in the ditch, not if I can help it.


	6. Sorry, this one's damaged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few warnings for this chapter: Mental health issues, self harm, self-worth issues, violence, underage drinking, suicidal ideation, flashbacks, dissociation. If anything that's been listed may upset you, give this one a miss. Look after yourselves!

Sam still has his dad's number saved on his phone. In the first few months following the accident, he would call it daily, and each time he would be met with the sound of his father's voicemail.

_Sorry, I can't come to the phone right now. If this is a business inquiry, please leave a message. If this is one of my sons, my answer is probably no. I'm kidding, send me a text._

John used to think he was so goddamn  _hilarious_. As did Dean, actually. Sam's never had much of a sense of humour, according to his brother, and Sam thinks maybe that's true. He's never been the fun one or the outgoing one or the flirty one, those are all Dean's jobs. Supposed to be, anyway.

But that was a year ago, and this is now.

Now, Dean doesn't go out with friends or flirt with people or crack jokes. Sam spends every second he can out of the apartment with Ruby, he's done way more than flirt, he's discovered he can actually be pretty funny if you get enough drinks in him. It's like some kind of  _Freaky Friday_  remake. Ever since the accident, Sam and Dean have swapped places.

Sam wakes up four hours earlier than he's supposed to, after tossing and turning all night long. The sky is a deep, dark blue and the moon is just a dull thumbprint behind grey clouds. Frost is webbing its way across the glass of his bedroom window, and Sam's fingers feel frozen where they clutch at his blanket. He blinks in the darkness as vague, shadowy shapes take form. The looming weight of his closet, the spidery shape of a jacket left on the floor, the hunched shoulders and dipped head of someone sitting at his desk.

Sam jolts upright, hand whipping out and scrambling to find the bedside light switch. He squints when the room lights up. There's no one sitting at his desk. The chair is empty, except for a mound of unwashed clothes. Sam lifts a hand to his chest where his heart is pounding fitfully, like it's just about ready to leap out from under his skin.

"Breathe, breathe, breathe," he reminds himself, but he can't. The four walls of his bedroom feel like they're closing in on him, like the door and window might vanish and he'll be trapped and the air will run out. But it's better in here than out there where anything could happen. Where people could get into a freak car accident. Where people die.

"Fuck," he mutters, tugging fistfuls of his hair. He reaches out and finds his phone where it's charging on the floor beside his bed. Two messages from Ruby.

_My party has been moved to 2morrow. I'll tell you about it school._

_Don't forget you said I could copy your bio hw xx_

Sam groans and drops back into his pillows. He hasn't done his biology homework. He hasn't done any of his homework. Dean's going to be pissed, even more pissed than he already is.

His sweatshirt is clinging to his sweaty skin and he peels it off and tosses it onto the floor with the rest of his worn clothes. Sam absently itches at his arms, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think.

Because that's the problem, isn't it? Things might be easier if Sam could get his brain to shut up for one damn second. If he isn't thinking about the crash, he's thinking about the cuts on his arms, and if he's not thinking about them, he's worrying about Dean, and if he's not doing that, he's asking why. Why? Why why why why?

Why do I push everyone away? Why can't I be who I was before? Why can't I be happy? Why did my dad have to die? Why was I born?

He runs these questions over in his mind. He can't stop himself. He wants to shut it off. How can he shut it off? Even sleep, when he can get it, doesn't save him from his thoughts. Even his dreams are dark and suffocating and littered with the shards of smashed headlights. The piece of glass he pulled from the leftovers of the wreckage sits in his bedside drawer. He takes it out and holds in both hands, fingers running along the smooth surface, gently stroking the sharp edges.

His arms are a mess. They're red and irritated and scratched to hell. They're never going to fade, not even once they've healed – if he'll ever let them heal. He finds a scab at the centre of his forearm, on the soft white skin, and he digs his nail under it until it comes loose. It hurts, but he can breathe.

Sam thinks of Mr Novak and his stupid, worried face. He wants to help, that's what he'd said. Sam wishes he could say  _yes please I'm scared and I don't know what to do_ , but it's like someone has their hand clamped over his mouth. What would it do to Dean if he knew? He's already lost his mom and dad, Sam can't let him know the truth. It would kill him.

_Just bite your teeth together and ride through it. Don't cause more problems for people than you already have._

"I want my dad," Sam whispers to the ceiling. He picks up his phone and scrolls through his contacts, he calls his father.

" _I'm sorry, the number you have called is no longer in service – "_

It's like a reflex when Sam hurls the phone across the room, where it cracks against the wall and lands in pieces on the ground. The movement from Dean's room next door is almost instant, and Sam quickly switches off the light and tucks himself back under his covers, trying to flatten himself down to the mattress. He squeezes his eyes shut.

The door creaks open and Dean's voice calls softly into the dark, "Sammy, are you awake?"

Sam doesn't move as Dean lingers for what must be a full five minutes. Finally, the door clicks shut again and Sam clamps his teeth around his pillow as the tears begin to fall. He muffles each sob and gasp that leaves him breathless and tired enough to eventually drift a little.

Sam's alarm doesn't go off. The alarm, which was on his phone, was hurled across the room and broken beyond repair. He's woken by Dean's insistent knocking.

"You up yet?" Dean calls through the door.

Sam rubs at his eyes and sits up, blinking drearily at the morning sunshine. "Um. Yeah," he lies, voice still raspy and rough with sleep.

There's a small pause from Dean, then, "Be in the kitchen in five minutes, okay?"

"Okay," Sam replies, then rolls out of bed. He manages to find his last pair of clean underwear, but has to turn yesterday's socks inside out. He slips a clean hoody over the plain grey t-shirt he slept in, and pulls on the same jeans he's been wearing all week. He needs a shower, like, three days ago. His hair is greasy and sticking in whichever direction it chooses, there's acne forming on his chin, there are bags under his eyes the size of Texas. In conclusion, he looks like crap.

He stumbles into the kitchen to find buttered toast and orange juice waiting for him at the table. Dean is dashing around the room, trying to get things into some semblance of order.

"You sleep alright?" he asks.

Sam shrugs. "Yeah. Like a baby."

Dean pauses by the sink and eyes him for a moment. "Something crashed last night and I'd swear it came from your room. You didn't hear that?"

"Nope."

"What time did you get to sleep last night?" Dean presses.

Probably around five am. "About midnight," Sam answers.

Dean looks like he wants to say something more, but he just turns back around and continues assembling Sam's lunch. Sam forces himself to swallow down his breakfast, counting his chews and trying to resist the urge to throw up. Things are getting worse, he can feel it. Some days you can stand on your own two feet, and other days you wake up under a heavy grey cloud.

He can feel himself slipping and he has nothing to hold onto.

* * *

Ruby, as expected, isn't pleased when Sam tells her he didn't do his biology homework. It's ten am and they're spending their morning break freezing their asses off on the bleachers. Ruby inhales her cigarette, not bothering to tap away the ashy end as she stares at Sam with an angry glint in her eye.

"You could have messaged me and told me you didn't do it," she huffs. "Now I have to do it during lunch."

"I'm sorry," Sam says honestly. He didn't want to upset her, he really didn't. He'd intended to do the homework last night, but he must have gotten distracted. "We can do it together," he offers. "I can help you. Or try, at least."

Ruby's face softens and she tubs out her cigarette under her boot, leaning against his shoulder. "You're way too sweet, Sam, it's almost sickening."

"Uh. Thanks." Sam decides to take it as a compliment. She twines her fingers with his and the two of them just sit there watching some seniors toss around a football on the field below. It's nice, to feel like a regular kid with a girlfriend and not much more to worry about than homework. With Ruby, he can almost forget.

"You're coming to my party tonight, right?" she says, and it's not a question.

"Uh. I'd have to ask Dean, and he'll probably say no – "

Ruby sits up straight and raises an eyebrow at him. "Since when did Dean become dictator?"

"I mean, he is legally my guardian, so."

"So?" Ruby repeats. "He's not the boss of you."

Sam sighs. "I never said – "

"I don't even want to have a party if you're not going to be there," Ruby says miserably, resting her chin in her hands. "Should I just cancel it?"

"No! No, don't cancel it. I'll be there, I promise."

Ruby smiles and pecks a kiss on his lips. "Maybe dress up a bit or something, though?" she says. "No offense, Sam, but the grunge look isn't so cute at a party."

Sam pulls his jacket tighter around himself, suddenly a little self-conscious. The bell rings, signally the start of their next class, and Ruby climbs to her feet, taking Sam's hand and pulling him along after her. She walks him all the way to his English class and gives him a kiss goodbye that's almost inappropriate for public viewing. Someone whistles at them as they walk by and Sam ducks his head, wishing he could disappear.

Once Ruby has gone, Sam finds a seat at the back of the room. Brady, a couple of seats in front, turns around and gives him a wink. Sam isn't sure how to respond, so he glues his eyes to his desk and pretends he didn't see.

He's tracing the cracks on his wooden desk with his fingertips, barely listening to what Mr Turner is saying at the front of the class, then Brady leans and twists around until he's facing Sam, grinning at him like a feral cat.

Sam blinks as the teacher's words finally filter into his brain, "Partner up with the person sitting next to you."

There's no one on Sam's right. He turns to his left and – oh, fuck.

Gordon Walker is glaring at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. He quickly turns away from Sam, trying to team up with Nancy who sits at his other side, but she's already huddled close and giggling with Tracy Bell.

A couple of seats in front of Sam, Brady is smothering his laughter in the crook of his elbow.

"Join your desk with your partner's," Mr Turner orders.

Gordon doesn't move. Of course, he doesn't. He's not even looking anywhere remotely near Sam's direction. Sam rolls his eyes. It's been months – _months –_ since Sam… did what he did. The situation was resolved, everyone apologised, everyone forgave. Well, not everyone. Sam sighs and grips the edges of his desk, lifting and sliding until it's about an inch apart from Gordon's.

"Hey, um, Gordon," Sam whispers. "I just want to say again that I'm  _really_ – "

"Shut the fuck up," Gordon hisses, and Sam presses his lips together. The entire class passes agonisingly slowly. To Sam, it feels like they're all there for at least five hours. He watches the second hand on the clock tick by.  _Tick… tick… tick…_

The whole time, Gordon won't even speak to Sam. When the bell finally rings, signally the end of the lesson, Gordon couldn't be out of his seat fast enough. Sam, he has to admit, actually feels really bad about it, and he really doesn't want Gordon to go on hating him. They used to be friends. He's got a lot of  _used to be friends_ in this school.

He catches up to Gordon at the end of the hall.

"Gordon, wait," he says. Surprisingly, Gordon stops and turns around.

"What?" he demands.

"Look, I really am sorry for what I did," Sam insists. "I just wanted you to know that."

Gordan snorts. "Right. Sure."

"I mean it," Sam says. "It was a while ago, and I was angry. It's no excuse, but I am sorry. My brother did fix your car after, so no harm, right?"

"No harm?" Gordon repeats. "You  _keyed_ my car. You're a freak."

Something coils up tight in Sam's chest and he goes rigid at the sound of that last word.  _Freak_. He takes a breath.

"Don't act like I'm the only person who did something wrong," he says, calm as he can. "You fucked with me first. You never apologised for it."

"I've got nothing to apologise for!" Gordon snaps.

People are slowing and stopping on their way to class, shuffling a little closer to see what the fuss is about. Sam takes a step towards Gordon and says under his breath, "You have a lot to apologise for. What you said wasn't okay."

"You cost us the state cup," Gordon says, mouth curled in disgust.

Sam swallows hard. "My dad had just died. Why didn't you understand that I wasn't up for playing fucking  _soccer?"_

"He died months before that game. It's a shitty thing to happen, I get it, but it's clear to everyone here that you're using what happened as an excuse to get attention."

Sam clenches his fist. After a deep breath he says, "That's bullshit. I'm not apologising for the soccer game, but I am apologising for what I did to your car. My brother fixed it up. Can we leave it at that?"

Gordon, like a shark smelling blood on the water, latches onto the mention of Dean. Sam can see it coming before Gordon even opens his sneered mouth.

"Tell your fag brother thanks, then."

Sam doesn't think. One second he's standing about half a meter from Gordon, the next he's got him slammed against a locker. A gasp rises from the crowd circled around them. Gordon may be shorter than Sam, but he's definitely stronger, and he shoves Sam away. Sam doesn't register the fist flying towards his face until he's sprawled out on the ground, his eye stinging so much it begins to water.

Sam kicks out a leg and Gordon is knocked onto his ass, then Sam leaps on top of him. Gordon grabs Sam's wrists and the two of them struggle there on the ground until Sam manages to shift his elbow into Gordon's nose. He lets out an almighty yelp, blood already gushing from his nostrils. He's on his feet quick, grabbing Sam by the front of his shirt and swinging him across the hall, head first into a locker.

Sam blinks frantically to clear the fuzziness from his eyes. He can see the shape of Gordon looming towards him, so he forces himself unsteadily onto his feet and launches himself at him. He lands on top of Gordon, and throws an uncoordinated punch at what he hopes is his face. Miraculously, his knuckles meet the hard bone of Gordon's jaw. Sam grins, bottom lip splitting, he tastes blood.

"Enough!" Someone's shouting. "Everyone get to class. Now!"

The spectators in the hall scatter and someone grabs Sam around the middle and peels him off Gordon. Mr Turner shakes his head at Sam and pulls Gordon to his feet. Then, Sam is pushed gently until his back is touching a row of lockers, the entire width of the hallway separating him from Gordon. Someone's hand is pressed to his chest, like Sam might just try for another round. There's a sly smile on Gordon's face, and Sam just might

Still blinking away the water running from his eye, Sam manages to glance up to find Mr Novak in front of him, looking far less than pleased.

"Either one of you want to explain what's going on?" he asks, voice harder than Sam's ever heard it.

"The psycho jusd wend f'me," Gordon says, hand cupped over his bleeding nose. "He's a fugging animal."

"Alright, enough," Mr Turner snaps. He takes Gordon by the elbow and steers him towards the nearest bathroom, presumably to rinse all the blood off his face.

Once they're alone, Mr Novak turns to Sam, releasing his grip. "What happened?" he asks.

Sam shrugs. He doesn't feel much like talking, because everything that comes out his mouth only seems to make things worse. Everything he touches falls apart. What's the point of him if he just makes everything worse than before?

"I don't believe this was entirely your fault," Mr Novak says, voice returning to its usual softness. "You need to tell me what happened."

Sam ducks his head and stares at the ground. His left eye is blurry and he can already feel it swelling, the eyelids inching closer together. "It doesn't matter what happened," he mutters at his feet. "I'm getting kicked out of here either way."

Mr Novak sighs, but he doesn't bother denying it. After a moment, he says, "Did he say something that upset you?"

Sam huffs and lifts his head until it's resting against the lockers behind him. He's so tired, he doesn't care about any of this anymore, he just wants to sleep. After a moment of trying to dab the wetness from his swelling eye with the sleeve of his hoodie, he looks at Mr Novak and says, "All of them are always saying  _something_. They're always talking about me, and I can ignore it. But – "

He cuts off. The words catch in his throat.

"But?" Mr Novak prompts.

Sam grits his teeth together and locks his eyes on a spot of Gordon's blood splashed on the shiny linoleum floor. "But I can't ignore it if they say something about my family," he admits.

Mr Novak doesn't try to push him any further about it, but instead he escorts Sam to the nurse's office. She orders him to sit on the bed as she shines a light in both eyes and gently fumbles along his scalp. He winces as her fingers probe at the back.

"Yeah," she mutters to herself. "A little bump, but no concussion." She fishes out an ice pack from a small fridge under her desk and holds it gently against the sore spot on his head. "Just alternate this between here and your eye. I'm afraid I'm not authorised to give you painkillers, so you'll have to ask a parent or guardian about it once you leave school."

 _Leave school_. Well, Sam's about to do that forever. It's only just dawning on him now. What will he do? Can he go to another school? Will he have to get a job? Jesus. Dean's going to kill him, so long as Gordon Walker doesn't get there first. Sam imagines his dad, the look on his face if he knew that Sam just got himself permanently expelled from school. It would probably be the same frustrated expression he wore just moments before the crash.

" _Sam, please. I don't want to fight with you, kiddo."_

Sam closes his eyes and listens. He can almost hear him, like a whisper coming from the other room. Dad's still here, Sam knows it. He's seen him in the dark at night, heard his voice. Sam opens his eyes and hopes his dad might be standing there in front of him, but Mr Novak is there in his place.

"Sam?" he says, clearly not for the first time. "Did you hear me?"

Sam shakes his head, regretting the movement instantly as a headache wells up behind his eyes.

"I said I was going to take you to see Principal Harvelle now," he says slowly, then frowns. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Sam lies, because what kind of question is  _are you alright?_ He's sitting here with a black eye, clearly the answer is no.

The route to the principal's office is no less terrifying the hundredth time you take it. Gordon is already sitting outside, so Sam takes the seat at the farthest end of the bench and hopes he won't get mad enough to give him another fist to his face. Judging by Gordon's expression, he's in exactly the same boat.

Mr Novak disappears into the principal's office. Sam can hear talking on the other side of the door, but no matter how hard he strains his ears, he can't make out much more than mumbling.

" _Sam, would you stop ignoring me?"_

He closes his eyes. He can feel him. Dad. It's like he's right here.

" _Look, bud. I'd rather not argue with you. Sam, are you listening?"_

He can see him. Dean always looked more like Dad, and Mom, judging by the photos they have of her. Sam doesn't know what he might have inherited from his mother, but he definitely shared his father's stubbornness. The two of them in a fight was like knocking down a brick wall with only your fists.

" _You let Dean go to parties when he was my age!"_

" _I know. I just don't want you out at night when the weather's like this."_

" _Snow's not gonna kill me, Dad."_

" _I worry, Sam. That's all. Humour an old man and stay in tonight? We can watch a movie."_

Sam wonders what they might have watched.  _Die Hard_  if Dean had been given the choice, an old Western if Dad had picked. But the wheels had caught on ice, and the car had skidded off the road, it had lost balance and flipped, straight into a tree trunk.

He can still feel the jolt through his entire body, the bruising tug of his seatbelt of his chest, the smack of his arm against the inside of the door, the crack of his bone, the blood rushing to his head. The silence.

" _Dad, I'm stuck. I – I think my arm's broken."_

Sam's knees are shaking. His hands are shaking, everything is a shuddering mess. He feels nauseous, is actually tempted to throw up all over the carpet beneath his feet. He catches Gordon staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He's staring at Sam like he's a bomb ticking down to zero and he wedges himself further into the opposite end of the bench.

Sam tugs his hood over his head, only to have it tugged back off in the next second. He glances up to Dean's hard eyes. Dean shakes his head and drops down into the seat beside him. He doesn't say a word to Sam, won't even look at him.

 _I'm sorry_ doesn't seem quite good enough, besides, Sam can't seem to get his mouth to open. All he can do is sit there and dig his nails into the palms of his hands. It calms him a little, but not enough. Sam lets himself drift into a daze. Nothing feels quite real, like he might blink awake any moment. He's sitting across from Principle Harvelle in her office, Dean at his side, with not much memory of getting there in the first place.

"You've had more second chances than any other student, given your circumstances," she says. "My hands are tied after today's incident. I have no choice but to permanently suspend you."

Sam locks his eyes downwards, watching the tips of his fingers fiddle with the drawstring of his hood. He knots it once, then unties it, nails tugging at the frayed ends.

"Do you understand?" Miss Harvelle asks.

"Yes," Sam answers, but his voice barely rises above a whisper.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Dean asks, and Sam tries not to wince. He sounds so frantic. "Sam  _has_  to go to school."

"He can try to enrol at another school," Harvelle suggests, and that's the point that Sam stops listening. He hears phrases like  _home schooling_ and  _try contacting the department for education_  and  _try for an appeal_. It's all pointless. He wants to tell them to stop wasting their energy on him. He's not worth it. No matter what they do, he's going to mess it up.

Dean must hate him. Dean, who gave up everything to look after to Sam. Sam has just thrown everything back in his face. He might as well spit on his feet as well. And Dad. Dad's going to be so pissed at Sam when he finds out, he's probably going to ground him for the rest of his natural life –

Wait. No. Dad  _would have_ been pissed at Sam. If he were still alive. Because Dad's dead. Sam saw it happen.

He blinks and he's on his feet, trailing down the hall behind Mr Novak. Sam's heartbeat picks up in his chest. He feels dizzy and the shiny linoleum floors are too bright for his eyes. Something's wrong with him, something strange is happening, like he's slipped out of his own skin, like he's watching himself from a distance.

Mr Novak stops and Sam nearly walks straight into him. They're standing in front of his locker and Mr Novak's telling him to open it, so Sam does, and he's staring at all his books and his gym sneakers and a photo of him and Mom and Dean from years ago that's blue-tacked at the back.

"If anything belongs to the school, just leave it in there," Mr Novak says. He sounds like a stranger, like he's never spoken to Sam before, like he's never seen him break down each week. Sam takes the photo first and tucks it safely into a pocket in his backpack. Then, he wedges his sneakers and notebooks and his copy of  _To Kill a Mockingbird_  inside before zipping it up and hanging it from his shoulder.

Sam isn't sure what he's supposed to be doing now, if he should be doing anything at all. He shuts the locker door and turns away. He should find Dean, let him yell at him until his throat gets sore.

Mr Novak pauses him with a hand on his shoulder.

"If you ever need help, or to talk to someone, I'm still here," he says.

Sam shrugs out of his grip and answers, "No thanks."

He almost feels bad for the hurt look that puts on Mr Novak's face. He walks Sam to the front office where Dean is pacing. Sam waits while the two of them speak not-so-privately on the other side of the room. He doesn't miss the way Mr Novak places his hand on Dean's arm, the way Dean leans into it, the way Novak's thumb brushes over the leather sleeve of his jacket.

Dean still hasn't said a word to him. They're in the car and pulling out of the school parking lot. Sam can feel the tension building, like Dean's bubbling under the surface, ready to boil over, and Sam has nowhere to take cover.

"You got nothing to say for yourself?" Dean finally asks, forced calm. The car comes to a stop at a red light and he turns his head towards Sam, eyebrow raised.

"I'm sorry," Sam manages.

The red turns to green and the car prowls forward, Dean taps his fingers along the wheel and turns around a block. They're taking the long way home.

"You're sorry," Dean repeats, shaking his head. "You were given more second chances than anyone else. How could you blow it? And for what? Because some dumb kid pissed you off."

"I – I tried," Sam insists. He shuts his mouth when his voice cracks and averts his gaze out the window.

"You tried? You should have tried harder, Sam. It doesn't take much restraint to keep yourself from punching someone in the face. What happened to you, huh? The little brother I know would never have done shit like this!"

Sam bites his lip. "Maybe I'm not the little brother you thought you had."

"Clearly," Dean says sharply. "You're better than this, Sam. You know you are."

"No, I'm not!"

Sam isn't sure who's surprised more by his raised voice, him or Dean. Dean doesn't say anything more until they're parked outside their apartment building. They head inside and up the stairs.

"I'm not gonna pretend I'm not pissed as hell," Dean says, his voice echoing around the stairwell, "because I am. But I'm worried more than mad. You're worrying me, Sammy."

Sam keeps walking, fists bunched up and shoved in his pockets.

"We need to talk about this," Dean says outside their apartment door. He jimmies the key in the lock and gives it a firm kick open, the hinges creaking. "You gonna explain all this to me?"

Sam lets his backpack drop to the floor with a heavy  _thud._ He turns to Dean and asks, "What's there to explain?"

"Apparently, you're the one who started that fight," Dean says, arms folded over his chest. "What did that kid do to make you so mad?"

Sam shrugs. He doesn't feel much like talking about it. He wants to climb under his bedcovers and stay there forever.

"Sam, just explain it to me, please. I want to understand."

No one understands. He feels trapped and exposed at the same time. Like an animal caught in a wire trap, just dangling from a tree branch with no way of getting down. What is he? He's a lost cause. Even the fucking school handed him back to Dean like he's something broken to be returned to sender.  _Sorry, this one's damaged._

"I tried to apologise to him," Sam explains, kicking off his shoes roughly. "Gordon's still pissed at me about his car, so I tried to say sorry. He wasn't interested and he said I was using dad as a way of getting attention."

Dean sighs heavily, he scrubs his hand over his mouth. "Oh, Sammy."

"But that's not what made me so mad," Sam goes on. "People are always talking about me and Dad and the crash like it's their business. I'm used to it. You know what did it for me? Why I slammed him into a locker? It's because of what he said about you. He called you – he called you a horrible name and I couldn't take it."

"I don't want you fighting my battles for me," Dean says softly. Sam's about to protest, but Dean cuts him off. "We'll talk about this later, but I have to get back to work. Will you be okay on your own for a few more hours?"

"I'm not a kid."

Dean's lips press together. "I'll talk to you later. Don't go anywhere," he says, then he's patting Sam on the shoulder and heading out the door. The door falls shut heavily, a hard  _click_  filling the empty apartment. Sam glances at the clock hanging over the fridge. It's a few minutes past midday, which means everyone at school is having lunch, which means everyone will have heard by now that Sam Winchester got kicked out of school for good. Good riddance.

His left eye is barely even open at this point, so he rummages around the freezer for a bag of peas and wraps it in a towel before pressing it to his face. Today feels longer than it should, he's exhausted in every inch of his body, right down to his bones. With the pack still chilling his black eye, Sam trudges to his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

The room's a mess. Unwashed clothes left all over the carpet, the smashed remains of his phone beside his chair, a piece of two-day-old toast on his desk. Sam stumbles over the chaos and drops down onto his unmade bed.

He's itchy all over. He feels ready to burst out of his skin. His eyes wander to his bedside drawer.

He falls asleep not long after, the bag of peas balanced on his face, fresh beads of blood on his arms.

* * *

The sound of the front door falling shut jolts Sam from an uneasy sleep. It's dark outside and the pillow under his cheek is soaked with the melted ice from the peas. He peels himself out of bed, mouth thick and sour with saliva.

Dean's probably going to burst in here any second to make good on his promise to  _talk later_. There's nothing Dean can tell Sam that he doesn't already know. Sam  _knows_ he fucked up. He  _knows_ he's a failure. He  _knows_ he keeps making mistakes. Knowing isn't the problem, the problem is stopping. He can't, he's like a train hurtling down the tracks with broken brakes, about to tip over a canyon, taking everything in its path with it.

Sam gently turns the handle and eases the door open. He can hear Dean's voice in the kitchen.

"I think he's sleeping," he says. "Yeah, I just came back about ten minutes ago. I'm just standing here like an idiot. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

There's a long pause.

"I'm worried, Bobby," Dean answers. "You were right this whole time and I wasn't listening… No, I should have been paying more attention… So, you think I should take him to a doctor?"

Sam freezes. No. No fucking way.

"I don't know how Sammy would feel about that, Bobby… Look, maybe I should call Cas. He knows about this stuff."

Cas. As in Mr Novak. Meaning Dean and Sam's school councillor –  _ex-school councillor –_ are on a first name basis. He saw the soft touches and the way their eyes latched onto each other. They're both huge fucking liars. They had  _promised_. Sam doesn't give a shit anymore, he storms into the kitchen to meet Dean's surprised face.

"I'll call you back, Bobby," Dean says into the phone before hanging up. "You're awake," he says to Sam.

"You're dating Mr Novak?" Sam demands.

Dean sighs. "Not  _dating,_ but we like each other, okay?"

"You promised you wouldn't," Sam seeths. "You both promised."

"Sam, it's more complicated than that. Besides, I'm a full-grown adult and I can make my own decisions about who I do or don't date. I know he was your school councillor, and it makes you uncomfortable but – "

"So, you both talk about me, huh?" Sam guesses. It all makes so much sense now. "I bet he tells you all the juicy little details. You get together and talk about the psycho? Everyone else already does, so why the hell not!."

Dean's eyes widen. "Jesus, Sam. No one's talking about you, okay? Cas didn't tell me anything. It's private, I get that."

"Stop fucking lying!" Sam yells. Shit. He's tempted to tear his own hair out; his fingers are already knotted into tufts at the front.

"I'm not lying, kiddo," Dean says, using that soft, spooked animal tone. He steps forward and Sam quickly steps back.

"At school, everyone looked at me and talked about me and – fuck!" Sam says breathlessly. "I don't care anymore. I'm done caring about anything!"

Dean's quiet for a moment. He's staring at Sam like he's grown another head, mouth opening and closing at a loss for words.

"Sam – "

"No!" Sam snaps. His eyes are blurry, his face is hot, he can't get a breath in. "Stop. You don't understand. No one understands. I can't do this anymore. I don't want to be here!"

He finally takes in a gulping breath. Dean is still quiet, just standing across the room and watching Sam cry his eyes out. Sam wants to melt into the floor, he wants to just disappear.

"Stop staring," he manages, voice shaking with sobs. He wipes his wet cheeks with the back of his sleeve.

"I'm not staring," Dean says softly. "I'm just worried, alright? You gonna let me over there?"

He tries for a step forward, but Sam backs away, closer to the door. He wants to run. He  _needs_  to run. He can't breathe in here, with walls around him and Dean staring at him and the sound of headlights smashing in his ears.

So, he does. He runs.

* * *

It's freezing. He didn't think about that before bolting out the front door. Of course, Dean had been right on his tail, but Sam's legs are longer, he can move faster. He leaped down the stairs three at a time, out into the street, then he cut down a back alley and over a fence. After five minutes of non-stop running, he pauses to look back. There's no sign of Dean.

He leans against someone's fence and tries to breath, the hotness of his breath catching onto the chilled air and swirling away like smoke.

He could really use a cigarette right now.

The ground is frosty and he looks down to notice he'd forgotten to put shoes on. The bottoms of his socks are already wet, the soles of his feet are burning. He trudges onwards, slow and steady on the ice, arms out for balance. Ruby's house is only a few blocks away, but he gets there in twice the time he should. He hears the music at the end of the street, can see the small figures of people milling into the house in the distance.

The party will be in full swing by now, and Sam really isn't up for a hundred pairs of eyes on him. If he can just get inside, get to Ruby, they can go somewhere quiet. She'll listen to him.

The front door is wide open and Sam slips inside, weaving through the dancing bodies, neck craned over the crowd in search of Ruby. The music is way too loud, he can feel every beat of it vibrating from the soles of his feet and up to his head, it makes him shaky with panic.

"Ruby?" he shouts, but his voice gets lost in the noise.

He can feel sweat on his brow, hot on his skin, he wipes it with his sleeve. There are people pressed in on all sides, jerking and shaking to the music, he gets an elbow to the ribs before he manages to squeeze into the kitchen. It's not as crowded here, but the few people hanging around in the smoke-filled room catch sight of him. A couple of girls dip their heads together a whisper, a guy from his biology class says, "I heard you got kicked outta school today." He holds out a shot glass. "You look like you could use a drink."

Sam shrugs and takes it, downing the liquid, wincing as it burns his throat. "Well, yeah. Thanks. Um, have you seen Ruby?"

The guy points upwards. "Saw her go upstairs."

Sam ducks out the room before anyone can ask more questions. The stairs are lines with people, one girl is crying on the bottom step, a few guys are chatting in the middle, the line for the bathroom ends at the top. He bows his head and presses on, ignoring any whisper he hears of his name.

"Shut up," he whispers, although no one will hear. He's so shaky, he's surprised he makes it all the way up to the second floor without falling back down again.

Ruby's bedroom door is closed, and that should be a giveaway, but Sam just pushes inside without knocking. The room isn't empty. There are two people on the bed, but they quickly part at the intrusion. Ruby. And Brady.

Brady has lipstick smeared all over his mouth and Ruby's sequined top is pushed up over her bra. Sam can't breathe for a second, he stumbles back into the door.

"You came!" Ruby blurts, tugging her top down. "I thought you weren't coming."

Sam glances between the two of them, at Ruby's bright grin and Brady's sly smile.

"I wasn't," Sam says numbly. "I mean. I don't know. I was looking for you."

Ruby frowns. "Jesus, Sam. You look like shit – where are you shoes? Are you okay?"

Sam squeezes his eyes closed. He can't think with the volume outside and the vibrations through his feet and the pair of them staring at him like that. Coming here was a mistake. He feels so stupid.

"I – I thought we were…" he says, but he can't finish the sentence. He isn't sure what they were.

Ruby, at least, looks a little guilty. She won't look him in the eye as she says, "Well, we were never official, you know? It's not cheating when we weren't together in the first place."

It's feels like someone just punched him in the gut and Sam can already feel tears welling up in his eyes. He turns for the door, but someone grabs his sleeve. Sam yanks, shrugging out of his hoodie. For a second, it feels good. He's hot, way too hot.

"Sam," Ruby gasps. "What happened to your arms?"

He glances down to where his bare skin is exposed, scabbed and scarred and itchy red. He curls his arms into himself.

"Jesus!" Brady exclaims, a smile stretching his face like he's just discovered the funniest thing in the world. Ruby throws a cold stare at him, before turning to Sam.

"You should go home," she says, eyes beseeching. "Okay?"

He doesn't need to be told twice. He's out the door, into the hall, down the stairs. He can hear Ruby calling after him, and he gets a few startled looks as he shoves his way through the dancing crowd. Once he's out the house, it's like he can finally breathe. He keeps going, trying to ignore the ache in his socked feet. He can feel a hole being pulled open around his heel, the skin underneath beginning to scrape.

* * *

The further he walks, the quieter it becomes.

He doesn't know where he's going, just that he needs to go. Away from Dean, away from Ruby, away from everyone. No one gets it, no one cares. Not really. It's all false smiles and eyes that look anywhere but at him. The temperamental dog that no one wants to admit out loud needs to be put down.

And he's back in the car, Dad at his side, a weary strain on his brow. They're talking – no, they're fighting. Sam's a distraction, and Dad's not paying attention to the road. They're slipping, skidding, hurtling, over and upside down.

Sam gasps. He's standing in the middle of a road, all alone, shivering his ass off.

He keeps walking.

The car hits the tree trunk hard, the bonnet caves in, the headlights smash and scatter.

Sam shakes his head to clear it. He's on the road, he's alone. He pauses and glances around in the dark. He can barely see a thing, but he knows. This is  _the_ road. The tree is right up ahead, a big strip missing from its bark. Sam keeps moving, then stops to spit at its roots.

"Fuck you," he says to the tree. He shuffles forward and skids down the bank, only to stumble and land on his ass. He glares at the rough, gnarled trunk. "I'm talking to a fucking tree," he whispers to the dark, then delivers a swift kick to the trunk, which is followed by a yelp as the scraped sole of his foot flares up with stinging pain.

He slumps back, feeling the squelch of mud under his back, the stickiness of it catching in his hair. He's tired, more tired than he'd ever think was possible. He's barely slept for a year, no wonder it decides to catch up with him now. He fumbles around his pocket for his phone for a minute, before remembering it's lying in pieces on his bedroom floor.

Soft clouds drift above and Sam feels the first fall of snow against his face as he closes his eyes. He's cold and sore, aching and shivering. He should get up, he knows he has to, but he can't get himself to move. He's not sure if he even cares enough to. Sam lies there, tears turning to ice on his cheeks, finally managing not to think. He curls up onto his side, wraps his shaking arms around his middle, snow drifting down to make his blanket.


	7. A wound that can’t be stitched back together or disinfected

Sam's cell phone lies spread out across the floor of his bedroom. Like a tiny, broken puzzle of the little metal pieces that went hurtling from the impact. The glass screen is cracked, reflecting the bedroom light at a hundred different angles, like a spider's web dressed in rain drops. There's no fixing this. Dean, a man who fixes things for a living, knows that.

Still, he scoops up what he can and carries it to the kitchen where he lays it on the surface of the kitchen table. The screen is pitch black under the shattered glass, every text and call Dean has made to Sam in the last fifteen minutes never reached its destination.

Sam is out there in the freezing cold and Dean has no way of contacting him.

Dean finds his own cell in his jeans pocket. The screen lights up when he taps it, then his thumb gently glides over the surface. He doesn't think when he selects a name in his contacts and dials. He turns on the speaker and waits.

Just hanging on the edge of the final ring, someone finally picks up.

"Dean?" Cas asks, sounding groggy and fresh from sleep.

"Hi," Dean says, trying to think of what to say. Because he isn't entirely sure what just happened. Everything with Sam blew up so quickly, he's still trying to process it. If Sam were a bomb that just went off, Dean's ears are still ringing.

"What's wrong?" Cas says, sounding more alert than only a second ago.

"I don't know," Dean admits. "Sam just – he freaked out. I don't know what happened. Suddenly, we were arguing, then he just bolted."

"Oh. Okay," Cas says softly. "I don't – "

"Something's wrong with him," Dean blurts. "He wasn't making much sense, then he just ran off. He didn't even put any shoes on."

Cas is quiet and Dean peers out the window where a soft snow is beginning to fall. He watches the flakes flutter by, each one totally different to the next, and gone so quickly once it hits the ground.

Sam, when he was going through his dramatic phase – kid used to read Edgar Allen Poe and drink apple juice out of one of Dad's wine glasses – once said snowflakes, along with the mayfly, are life's smallest tragedies because they live for such a short time. Dean had laughed at him for three days straight.

Real tragedies are just stories the news plays at 7pm each night. Nothing tragic ever happens to regular people, not like Dean.

But it does, and it did. His dad's gone. And now, he's picturing Sam's face stamped on a milk carton. Or worse, under a plastic black sheet.

"Dean," Cas' sharp tone snaps him back into the dimness of his kitchen. "Dean, we need to go look for him, okay?"

"Yeah. I just – "

He – what? Dean doesn't know. It feels like his insides are folding in on themselves, like he could throw up, like he might just stop breathing. Ever since the crash, it was one bad thing after the other. He and Sam never got the chance to recover.

"Dean?" Cas sounds concerned, it's not the first time he's spoken his name. "Breathe, Dean."

Dean hadn't noticed he wasn't. He gulps in a lungful of air, then slowly pushes it back out between his lips, then again, a few more times.

"I think I'm freaking out a bit," he admits.

"Understandable," Cas replies. His voice is soft, like an untouched layer of fresh snow. "Do you have any idea where Sam might be?"

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think. Sam had been mostly quiet these past few days, Dean really doesn't have much of an idea about what the kid gets up to most of the time. Sam likes to shrug, he pushes his food around his plate, and gets into trouble at school, and drifts around the apartment like he's haunting it. He's never interested in anything, except for hanging out with Ruby.

"I think I have an idea," he tells Cas. "I – I'm sorry for calling you like this. I've got a couple people who can help me out – "

"Dean," Cas interrupts. "You really think I'm letting you deal with this by yourself?"

For the first time that day, Dean manages a smile.

* * *

Sam, when he wasn't six feet tall, was a spider monkey. A limpet, Dad used to say. He was a clingy little fucker, would wrap his octopus legs around Dean and Dad when he was still young enough not to be embarrassed by sticking too close to his family.

Dean misses him. He misses the way Sam used to be. He misses when his brother actually talked to him. Next time Dean sees him, he's going to wrap him up in a hug so tight the kid won't have any chance of getting away again. And right after, he's going to give the kid a talking to that would rival one of Dad's.

He turns onto one of the nicer streets in town and hears the swell of music right away, fast and beating hard enough he can feel it vibrating in his ears. The Impala's wheels are holding up well on the snow so far, which is now thick enough to crunch under his boots as he hops out of the car and heads for Ruby's house.

Right now, Bobby is circling the town in search of a barefoot, dumbass kid, and Jody and Cas are headed towards Andy Gallagher's house. Andy was Sam's best friend for years, the two of them used to make mud pies in the backyard of their old house, hurtling in for dinner with dirt-caked fingers. If anyone knows Sam, it would be Andy.

But Sam and Andy haven't been SamandAndy since the crash. Sam's latched himself onto Ruby these past few months. Like Dad had said, a limpet.

There must be more than fifty kids here, all dressed up older than they are with low-cut tops and red plastic cups in their hands. Some of them stare, some make a run for it like Dean's about to bust their asses for drinking years before they should. He taps a kid on the shoulder and Gordon Walker turns to face him, eyes wide over a nose that's swollen from the impact of Sam's fist.

Dean ignores the spooked-horse look and asks, "Which one is Ruby?"

Walker just stares, then points towards the kitchen where a pretty girl with long, dark hair is sitting up on the counter and downing a shot of god-knows-what.

She's bleary-eyed and wobbly by the time Dean navigates the crowd towards her, and she blinks at him for a few seconds before saying, "Aren't you Sam's brother?"

"Are you Ruby?" Dean replies.

Ruby nods, nearly tipping herself onto the floor as she does. Dean catches her shoulder and straightens her up.

"Have you seen Sam?" he asks, the clenching feeling returning to his insides. Ruby might have the answers, she might be able to point him in the right direction, maybe even just up the stairs, then he'll have Sam back at home in no time.

"He was here," she says, slow and slurring her words. She blinks, silent for long enough that Dean worries she forgot what the question was. "He came by around… what time's it? I dunno, but he was here. He was, um. Messed up, I guess?."

The clenching inside tightens suddenly and Dean sucks in a breath. "He was hurt?"

"No," Ruby shakes her head, but catches herself on the cabinet before tilting over. "In the head, I mean." She leans close and whispers, "He's  _crazy."_

Dean bites his lip, choosing to ignore that comment. "But he's not here now?"

"No, he left a while ago," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "I dunno where he went."

A sinking sensation replaces the tight pain of panic, and he sighs heavily. Behind him, something smashes, then there's a chorus of cheers. Dean remembers parties like this, he was one of these kids only a few years ago, he would probably have been the one doing the smashing.

Now, he's the one saying, "Make sure you clean up after yourselves. You'll owe your parents at least that much by morning."

He leaves her slumped on the counter, fingers rubbing her temples, then he squeezes back through the crowd and out into the chilly night air. It's still snowing gently and the roof of his car is white under the streetlight.

* * *

"So, you and Dean are friends?" Jody Mills asks, sneaking glances at Cas as she tries to focus on the snow-covered road.

"I work at Sam's school, too," Cas answers. He doesn't mention that he was specially assigned as Sam's councillor, it's clear Jody is making assumptions about his relationship with Dean and he really doesn't want her disapproval. Or maybe Cas just feels guilty. It's his fault Sam ran off. If he had just left things be, if he'd honoured his promise to stay away from Dean, he might not be out on the road late at night. Sam might be at home, safe and warm.

Hopefully, Sam's at one of his friends' houses. Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding that causes more aching worry than it ought to.

Deep down, Cas knows that's not the case. He can feel it. Something is seriously wrong.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he finds a message from Dean:  _Sam was at party earlier. He left, don't know where to._

Cas passes the message onto Jody and watches as she nibbles at her lower lip. She's worried, but she doesn't say anything.

"How long have you known the Winchesters?" Cas asks, to fill the silence.

Jody smiles softly. "Oh, for years. It's a small town, you know? Almost everybody knows everybody. I met John, their dad, through Bobby. The two of them had been good friends for more than a two decades."

Her smile drops as she sucks in a breath. "It was a real tragedy," she says, "for everyone. We all knew John, and some of us knew Mary when she was alive. We try to watch out for the boys, but – "

She cuts off, but Cas knows what she was going to say.

"It's no one's fault," he says. "Sam has suffered more than anyone should have to. Dean, too. Nothing can fix grief."

"I know," Jody replies, and the tone of her voice makes Cas wonder who she lost. He's hesitant to say anything, looking for the right words, but she beats him to it. "We knew. We knew something was wrong but we didn't do anything. We were scared to push him too hard, we didn't want to upset him. If we'd done  _something,_ maybe we wouldn't be here."

It seems the same guilt is dripping through everyone. They all tried to hold Sam above water, but while they were all deciding whether to build a raft or shoot off a flare, Sam slipped under.

They pull onto a quiet street. Jody doesn't bother parking, leaves the police truck running to the side of the road. She tells Cas to wait in the car, and jogs carefully towards a little one-story house with softly lit windows. Andy Gallagher answers with a surprised look on his face, a couple more kids gathering behind him. Cas recognises Charlie among them.

They talk for a moment, but the shake of Andy's head says it all. When he shuts the front door as Jody heads back to the car, it feels like Cas' heart has sunk a little lower in his chest, wedged between the bottom of his lungs.

"They haven't seen him," Jody says as she climbs behind the wheel again. She turns to Cas. "Do you have any ideas?"

He's caught a little off guard. Cas has only known Sam for a few weeks. He doesn't know where he might run to, or who he might run to. He thinks of Sam, bruises under his eyes and the same shirt from the day before. Sleepless nights. Cas wonders if Sam ever has a moment free from the crash, from his father.

"Where is John buried?" he asks Jody.

"Local cemetery. Why?"

"And their childhood home, that's close by?"

"Yes, but – "

He finds his phone, the bright screen lighting up Jody's truck in artificial blue. He sends two messages, one to Dean and the other to Bobby Singer.

Jody taps her fingers against the wheel. "Where to?" she asks.

Cas has an idea, but he hopes he's wrong.

* * *

It's almost pitch black in the cemetery, only the torch from Dean's cell phone guides his way. It's quiet, each tombstone sits silent under a blanket of white, like neat rows of soldiers standing to attention. His boots crunch and sink in the snow, leaving the deep wells of his footsteps in his wake.

Dean hasn't been here in months, not since he and Sam visited for their Dad's birthday, the first they celebrated without him. They brought two beers, poured one out over the soil for Dad. Dean let Sam have a sip from his before downing it all in only a few gulps.

"Sammy?" Dean calls into the dark. He gets no answer but the rustle of naked trees in the snowy breeze. "Sam?"

He trudges on, swinging the light from left to right, scanning the grounds for any sign of his little brother. He doesn't watch where his feet step and almost trips over a headstone, shins banging against the top of it painfully, he cries out and swings the light downwards.

_Mary Campbell Winchester_

_Mother, Wife, Friend_

_1965 – 2000_

And recently etched beneath:

_Jonathon Winchester_

_Father, Husband, Friend_

_1965 – 2016_

Dean sighs shakily, breath turning to fog and coiling away into the darkness. He drops to his knees, ignoring the twinge of his freshly bruise shins.

"Hey, Dad. Hey, Mom."

Of course, there's no answer. There's never any answer when Dean lies awake at night aching from the gaping hole inside of him. Grief just swallows you up, it's a wound that can't be stitched back together or disinfected. Even if it does heal, it'll leave some nasty scars.

Dean's never believed in God, but that hasn't stopped him praying. There's always been a foolish part of him that likes to think that Dad, wherever he might be, is watching over them. Maybe they could meet in his dreams. Or the clouds could part and he'd get his  _Lion King_ moment.

But Dad's gone. He's never coming back. And now Sam's lost.

"I could use some help," Dean says quietly. "I'm holding it together the best I can, but I don't know how much longer – "

The silence is too much, louder than Dad could ever raise his voice when Dean did something stupid.

Dean pats the top of the stone, brushing away the untouched layer of snow like soft powder. He uses the grip to push himself to his feet. He doesn't say goodbye, there's no one around to hear it. Besides, he has a little brother to find.

* * *

Cas is lucky he brought his glasses, otherwise he might never have seen him, might have let Jody keep on driving. Even then, it was close. Everything is dressed in white; the road, the trees, the fields, a teenaged boy. He glides the light of the torch over him as they rolled slowly by. At first, he thinks it's just another part of the landscape, a log or a rock or a rise in the ground. Then he notices long fingers sticking out from under the blanket of snow. He yells to stop so loudly that Jody startles, slamming her foot on the breaks, jerking them both forward. Cas hits his arm off the dashboard and it hurts, throbbing at his elbow, but he's too busy yanking on the door handle to pay any notice.

The road is slippery, of course. Cas' feet fly out from under him and he skids off the side of the road and down the bank, thighs and back scraping and stinging on the gravel and the chill of the ice. He can see Sam more clearly now, can make out a nose and a pair of eyes under snow-crusted lashes.

He scrambles onto his feet and dashes for him. He can hear Jody calling out to him from the road, her flashlight swinging their way, followed by her saying, "Oh, God!"

Cas gets his hands on Sam, nearly jerks away because his skin is so cold. Too cold. Not like living flesh.

"No," he mutters. "No, no, no."

His fingers flutter at the boy's neck. He stops breathing, barely moves a muscle, trying to feel. Behind him, Jody is skidding down the bank calling Sam's name.

Soft and faint, barely there under his fingertips, is a pulse. Cas lets out a breath so deep everything turns foggy. His fingers are numb as he reaches around Sam's middle and pulls, most of the snow that settled on him falls away, the rest still clings to his hair and clothes.

Sam is limp, and his head falls back onto Cas' shoulder. Cas dips his head and feels Sam's slow, shallow breaths against his ear. Jody appears, gloved-hands shaking as she holds Sam's cheeks between her palms.

"He's breathing," Cas says. He only now realises how exhausted he is, from his aching head to his unsteady legs as he tries to lift Sam up.

Jody takes half the weight as they carry him up to the truck where they lay him out in the back seat.

She hops behind the wheel and says breathlessly, "Get him out of those wet clothes then wrap him in the blanket under the seat."

She starts up the engine and presses down on the gas so fast that Cas only just manages to close the door before they're speeding down along the road. It's cramped in the backseat as Cas peels the frigid t-shirt from Sam's torso. Sam's fingers are swelling, red and blistered, a couple of them turning pale blue. He's still shivering, that's supposed to be a good sign –

He freezes when he spots the state of Sam's arms, from elbow to wrist there are thin, neat scars. They vary from months old white knots to fresh and seeping red. He notices then that Jody turned on the police truck's alarm, bright lights flash all around them in red and blue.

Cas manages to get the rest of Sam's soaked clothes off, even his boxers, before covering him in the blue blanket he finds under the seat. Then, he can only sit there with Sam's head resting on his lap.

"Sam? Sam, can you hear me?" He gentle taps at his pale cheek.

Sam's eyelids flutter, but they don't open. His lips part as he utters something so quiet Cas has to dip close to hear.

"Mmm… D-d…"

"Sam, can you open your eyes?" Cas tries, but he doesn't receive an answer. He rests his hand on Sam's chest, just to make sure he's still breathing.

He can see the sign for the hospital up head and could cry with the relief.

"You'll be okay, Sam. You're going to be okay."

* * *

Dean can't stop shaking, and it's not from running around in the snow all night. The plastic chairs in the waiting room are uncomfortable as hell, digging into his back, making his ass fall asleep. He stares at the clock. It's be an hour since he arrived.

He doesn't look up as Cas takes the empty seat beside him, or when he offers one of the two paper cups of coffee in his hands.

"No thanks."

Cas sighs. "You need to warm up a bit."

Reluctantly, Dean takes the cup, it's hot in his hands, but he doesn't take a sip. He fixes his eyes to the clock, watches the second-hand tick by slowly. It shouldn't be taking this long, should it? What if something went wrong? What if Sam is scared and alone and Dean isn't there because he's here in this fucking waiting room?

He rubs his knuckles against one eye, giving in to the smell of coffee as he takes a sip. He winces at the bitter taste, the usual crappy vending machine coffee he's all too familiar with, but it does the job.

"He needed me and I wasn't there," he says, staring down at the toes of his boots. He's caught off guard when Cas lays a hand on his shoulder, but allows himself to lean into it anyway.

"Don't do that to yourself," Cas says softly. For a moment, it feels like just the two of them huddled together in the corner of the waiting room. Cas' other hand rests over his and it's the warmth he needs. A perfect fit, like it was always meant to be there. He's never felt so  _right_ with another person before.

He dips his head and rests it against Cas' cheek, letting out a deep breath. He needs strength he doesn't have to say these next words.

"We can't be together."

The two of them pull away, Cas' deep blue eyes fixed on his. He doesn't look sad or angry, more defeated, like he saw it coming a mile away.

"I have to be there for Sammy," Dean explains. "He needs my full attention right now and… I know it's unfair to ask you to wait. Until Sam is a bit better. Maybe one day he'd be okay with this."

Cas glances away and the warmth of his hand over Dean's disappears. There's a lump forming in his throat, heart pounding in his chest. He's fucked this up beyond repair, he knows it.

"I understand," Cas says eventually, looking up again. "Our relationship is having an effect on Sam. I always knew I was being selfish by pursuing this, but I promise I never wanted to hurt him."

"You weren't selfish, Cas," Dean is quick to say. "Sam's just not – "

Not what? Not well. Not healthy. Not stable.

"Not in a good place right now," he finishes.

"I get it. Really, I do," Cas says. "All I want is for Sam to get better. But, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd like to be there for you, as a friend. Sam is suffering, yes, but so are you."

Dean manages a smile, opens his mouth to speak, but that's when the doctor comes through the double doors that lead to the emergency room.

* * *

Everything feels numb, inside and out. Except for his fingers and toes, those burn like they've been dipped in fire. His eyes feel glued shut, but he can't make himself drift off no matter how hard he tries. He can hear footsteps and voices and a soft beep, beep, beep close by.

He wishes he could tell them to be quiet and let him sleep, but his lips are glued together, too.

A shiver runs through him. It's cold. No, it's  _freezing_. Strangely, his lungs fill with humid air. There's something strapped to his face, he needs to get it off, but when he shifts his hand a burning pain shoots through his fingers. He can't help yelping, voice muffled by whatever's over his mouth.

He peels open one eye. It's too bright, he closes it again.

"Sammy?"

Dean. That's Dean. Sam turns his head in the direction of his voice and tries opening his eyes again. It's bright, but after a moment the two lights overhead merge back into one. He's overwhelmed by the dull blue curtain that's pulled around his bed. And Dean, who's sitting to his left.

Sam wants to ask where they are. More importantly, he wants to ask what happened, but all he manages is a cough which sends another chill through him.

"Don't try to move too much," Dean says. He sounds exhausted, a deep sigh between words. "How're you feeling?"

Sam licks his dry lips. "Cold, sore, tired," he croaks, barely audible under the clear plastic mask over his mouth.

It comes back to him then: running out of the apartment, catching Ruby with Brady, running down The Road and… just stopping. He didn't want to keep going. He couldn't. He looks at Dean, properly this time, and sees how red his eyes are. He looks older than twenty-one, and Sam knows he gave him each of those extra years.

"Sorry," he says, because Dean deserves at least that. His voice cracks and he knows if he says anything more he'll start crying.

Dean shakes his head, leans close and pulls the oxygen mask down to Sam's chin. "Sammy, I should have taken better care of you. I should have never let this – "

"No," Sam cuts him off, and the first tears rolls down his cheek onto the pillow beneath his head. "Dean, please. I – "

That's all he can manage for now, the lump in his throat is big enough to choke him. He turns away, eyes fixing on anything but Dean's face. His fingers and toes are individually bandaged, hands and feet raised and rested on a pile of pillows. The rest of him is buried under about five blankets, he can see the collar of a blue hospital gown peeking out from under, and the edge of his arm shows off dozens of cuts where the blanket has fallen away.

Dean's looking at it, too, but he doesn't seem shocked or angry. He looks sad. Sam is struck with fear, of what Dean might say, but he's too tired. He's barely managing to keep his eyes open all the way, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.

"The doc explained to me," Dean says, then clears his throat. "They say those are self-inflicted."

Sam doesn't know what he's supposed to say. He never wanted this conversation to happen, he was dumb enough to believe it wouldn't. Making himself bleed wasn't supposed to hurt anyone else.

"Jody and Cas found you on the side of the road asleep," Dean says, his voice is dull. "You're hypothermic, got mild frostbite on your fingers and toes. The doc will explain that you, I don't really understand all these words they throw around."

He rubs a hand over his mouth, like he usually does when he's about to say something he doesn't want to. Sam isn't sure if he wants to hear it, either.

"It was an accident, right?" Dean says. "You were tired and your feet hurt too much to keep walking. You didn't just lay down there to – to die. Right, Sam?"

Sam isn't entirely sure what the answer is. Did he want to die? Maybe. But that's not what will comfort Dean right now.

"It was an accident," he says. "I must have passed out."

Dean doesn't look satisfied with that answer. Sam certainly doesn't feel satisfied, not when his brother looks so broken and defeated, hunched over at his bedside like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. There's a distance that's been growing between the two of them for months, but it feels miles wide here in this cramped hospital cubicle.

* * *

Last night, Dean managed to make it all the way to Bobby's spare bedroom before crying. He didn't get even a second of sleep, kept up by a constant whirlwind of thoughts.  _What did I do wrong? Why did Sam do this to himself? To me? Why didn't he talk to me? How do I make it better? What if I'd lost him, too? Oh, God. I almost lost him_.

The next morning, he has no tears left, he's dry to the bone and ends up downing a glass of water so fast he throws up right after. Jody hovers around him like the mother hen that she is, Bobby sits at the kitchen table and watches them both over the top of his newspaper.

It's when Dean loses his grip on his coffee cup and it goes hurtling to pieces on the floor that he finally snaps.

"How could he do this?" he says, not looking up at anyone, trying to collect the broken ceramic shards in the palms of his hands. "I'm so mad at him. I-I can't help it. Does that make me a bad person?"

Jody crouches by his side and begins soaking up the spilled coffee with a towel. "You're not a bad person," she says, "and you're certainly not a bad brother."

"I'm not supposed to be angry at him," he says.

Jody places one hand on his shoulder. "You have every right to feel how you feel, okay? I know you're angry, but I know you're even more scared. Because you care so much about him. Just remember that you have to patient with him. He needs you now, and you need him."

Dean drops his head. "I don't know how to do this."

Bobby shifts in his seat and says, "Good thing you're not doing it alone."

* * *

Sam didn't sleep, but that isn't anything new. He lay awake all night, shifting on the uncomfortable hospital bed, trying to ignore the sounds of the kid crying in the cubicle beside his.

Visiting hours start in five minutes, which means Dean will be here in five minutes, and Sam will have to explain that the psyche evaluation he had last night probably ticked every box for crazy. Not that the C word is used around here. He lies there, pinned under a mass of blankets, and watches the clock tick closer and closer to 10am.

His breakfast sits uneaten and cold on the bed table. Sludgy oatmeal and syrupy orange slices from a tin, no thanks. He's not hungry, anyway. He needs to get out of here or else he'll go insane – even more insane. He keeps checking the door for men in white scrubs ready to strap him into a straightjacket.

He startles when the door opens, but it's just one of the nurses coming to take away breakfast trays. She gives Sam a disapproving look when she sees his still-full plate and says, "You'll need all your energy if you're going to get better, sweetie."

She doesn't lecture him, moving on to the next bed. Sam's eyes follow her around the room and out the door, that's when he notices Dean hovering, clearly convincing himself to step into the room. He catches Sam looking and strolls in like he only just arrived. He drops a bag of gummy bears and a tiny stuffed pink elephant onto Sam's lap.

"Picked these up in the giftshop," he says, shrugging. Then adds, with little enthusiasm, "I know pink's your favourite, princess."

His eyes flicker to Sam's scarred arms, but he doesn't let his gaze linger for long. He clears his throat and finally takes the empty seat beside the bed.

"How're you doing?" he asks, elbows resting on his knees so he's leaning closer than Sam would like. He wants to shove his arms under the covers to hide them, but that'll just draw more attention, which might bring up a conversation neither of them want to have.

He ponders the questions. Physically, he's not as cold as he was but he still had to sleep under three blankets last night. Mentally… well, let's not go there.

"I'm fine," Sam says. Dean doesn't buy it, of course, but he doesn't call him out for lying. He looks exhausted, actually, worse than the time Dean went partying for three days straight after graduating high school. Sam can't help but ask, "Are you okay?"

"Sure," Dean mutters. His eyes drop to his lap and he shakes his head. "No, you know what? Let's not play dumb anymore, Sam. I feel like shit, and I know you feel worse."

He's looking right at him now, Sam can feel his gaze on him, can see the blur of his face out of the corner of his eyes. Sam stares down at the blanket pulled over his lap. Soft blue, little square dents all along it, smells like bleach. He ignores the beady black eyes of the pink elephant and focuses elsewhere. His fingers are burning, just a spike of pain that makes him squirm. He focuses on it, wiggles his fingers just feel a little more.

"Sam."

No. Not now. Not ever. He isn't ready for this.

"I'm scared, Sam," Dean says.

Sam stiffens his fingers. He can't look at him, he can't make himself do it.

"I don't want to lose you, too," Dean goes on. His voice cracks, but Sam's too scared to look up in case he really is crying. Sam did that. Sam hurt him. "Sammy, why have you been hurting yourself?"

If Sam knew the answer, maybe he never would have done it in the first place. He startles when Dean's hand finds his arm, fingers wrapping around lightly above the elbow, avoiding any of the wounded flesh. He squeezes gently, his hand is warm.

"I don't know," Sam says. The words tumble out against his will, he's shaking all over, not because of how cold he is. His cheeks, on the other hand, are hot as a tear rolls fast and wet down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean."

"Next time you say sorry, you're giving me a dollar," Dean jokes, but his heart isn't in it. Sam musters a smile for him, anyway. "Why didn't you come to me?" Dean asks. "I would have listened, you know that, right?"

"I don't know," Sam says again, and he really means it this time. His heart has been so heavy this past year, so achingly heavy. How many times has he wished just to open his mouth and tell Dean everything? How many times has he stopped himself? "I just couldn't. I didn't want to – "

A sob pulses through him, chest tightening, mouth full of thick saliva. A little bit dribbles out and forms a string from his quivering lip. He tries to wipe it away on the blanket, but Dean produces a tissue out of nowhere and cleans him up like he's a goddamn toddler. His hand is still on Sam's arm, rubbing gently up to his shoulder where it sits patiently.

"I didn't want to upset you," Sam finally manages. "I – I'm so sorry. Dad died because of me."

He's crying again, loud and messy, causing enough of a scene that the kid across the room is staring at them both. Dean is staring, too, eyes wide enough to show the whites. He's angry. Of course, he's angry.

"Sam, that's not true," he says.

"It is! We were arguing because of me. That's when the truck went off the road."

"The roads were icy that night, that's all."

"No. If he – if he hadn't picked me up. If I'd taken the bus. Or if I h-hadn't started that argument – "

Dean shifts close enough that they're almost nose-to-nose, both hands on Sam's shoulders, eyes hard. When he speaks, he speaks low and clear, "You are not responsible for Dad dying, got it?"

"But – "

"No. Sam, Dad did not die because of you. It was just an accident."

Dean doesn't understand, he wasn't  _there_ when it happened. He seems angry, but none of it is directed at Sam when it should be. He reaches out to push back a string of greasy hair from Sam's forehead as he returns to his seat.

"You been punishing yourself?" he says, voice softening. He drops his head with a sigh. "I talked to the doc and they're keeping you here until tomorrow morning. You'll have to come back for check-ups. And they – they want to refer you for a diagnosis, with a psychiatrist. I think it's a good idea. They're talking about therapy – "

"Wait," Sam cuts him off. "They're not locking me up?"

"Locking you up?"

"They're not sending me to the nut house?"

"I don't think you're supposed to call them that," Dean says, then blinks. "Man, I sound like you… but no. You can come home in the morning."

Sam studies him a moment, he can usually tell when Dean is playing a joke on him, but he looks deadly serious. For months, Sam has been terrified of being taken away and put on a locked ward. And now, they're just letting him go? They saw what he did to himself, didn't they? They don't know the half of it.

"I, uh." Sam pauses, takes a breath. "I've been seeing Dad. For a long time now."

"Seeing him?" Dean looks confused.

Sam nods. "Sometimes, I think I see him in the corner of my eye, or I can smell his aftershave, or hear his voice."

Dean's quiet for a moment. "You know," he says eventually, "I miss him too…"

" _No_. No, Dean. I mean it. I  _see_ him sometimes. I can hear him like he's right next to me."

Dean just stares at him, brow furrowed, lips parted like he wants to say something but he doesn't know what. He settles for, "You told the doctor all this?"

"Yeah."

Dean shrugs. "Then I'm sure they know what they're doing. Look, this therapy thing could really help you."

Sam wants to tear his hair out, but his fingers aren't up to the task as they lie wrapped on the bedsheets. Why is no one listening? He's telling them the truth,  _finally,_ and they all just nod and carry on like it's nothing. Maybe Sam's the sane one and everyone else has gone insane.

"But," he says, "I'm crazy."

"Far from it, kiddo," Dean answers, quick as a beat. "You're sick, and you're gonna get better. That's all."

 _That's all_. Things aren't that simple. Nothing this past year has been simple. Sam's been walking around with a storm cloud over his head, ready to burst and cause a heap of destruction. It's getting bigger and darker and  _angrier._ He looks at Dean, who finally looks a little hopeful behind the weariness that drenches him. Sam could cry, but he thinks he's cried himself dry.

"It's the fifteenth," Dean says out of the blue. One year. Dad's been gone for a whole year.

On second thought, Sam might have a few more tears left in him. Dean hops up onto the edge of the bed and Sam buries his face in his chest, soaking Dean's t-shirt.

"We'll go see him, okay?" Dean says, mouth pressed against the top of Sam's head. "Tomorrow, when I bust you out of here. I don't think he'd mind waiting."

Sam can't say anything; his throat feels clogged and his chest is heaving too hard to catch a breath. He just wraps his arm around Dean, the other tucked up against his chest. It hurts. Dad being gone  _hurts._ He doesn't know if it will ever stop hurting.

But, here in Dean's arms, he feels safer than he has in a long time. For the first time in a year, Sam doesn't feel alone.

* * *

The first thing Dean does when he picks Sam up from the hospital is wrap him up in so many layers he looks like he's gained twenty pounds. Sam rolls his eyes as Dean carefully slips a second pair of gloves onto his hands, but he's glaring at him as he tucks his hair under the hideous bobble hat Bobby gifted him years ago.

"There's a reason I buried this at the bottom of my closet," Sam says, poking at the pom pom on top of his head.

"And there's a reason you didn't throw it away," Dean counters. He opens the Impala's passenger door and nudges him inside. They pull out of the hospital parking lot with the heater turned up high and the radio blasting  _Bob Seger._ Dean hums along and taps the wheel.

"What's got you so chirpy?" Sam asks. "You finally get laid?"

"One, I'll have you know I could get laid whenever I like," Dean says, affronted. "Two, I'm just happy you're here, bitch."

Sam's shocked quiet for a moment, likely contemplating how deep the meaning of  _here_ goes. Here, as in with Dean in the Impala? Or here, as in still living? Dean means both, especially the latter.

"I'm happy to be here, jerk," Sam finally answers, voice soft under Seger's gravelly singing.

The roads are still frozen white so Dean drives at half the speed. Another flurry of snow begins to fall, bright white against the soft grey of the sky. The high street is decorated with the usual Christmas fairy lights, and even though it's too early in the day for them to be lit it feels like a winter wonderland.

Still, after what happened, Dean thinks he's going to be having nightmares about snow for weeks.

Benny's diner isn't so busy this Sunday morning, probably because of the weather, and most people will be in church. He and Sam haven't been here together since last year, and Sam stares at the place with a real sad look on his face.

"You okay?" Dean asks.

Shakily, Sam nods. He's out of the car before Dean can enquire further, trudging through the snow towards the entrance. Inside, Benny is sitting behind the counter doing the crossword. He grins as he looks up and notices them.

"Aren't you two a sight for sore eyes," he says in his deep southern twang. "Sit wherever you like and I'll be right over."

Sam goes straight for their usual booth, the one that's furthest from the door and has the best view of the TV. He looks pale, deep purples under his eyes, his nose is red from the chill, but when Dean slides in across from him, he's smiling.

"Sammy?"

Sam shakes his head as if to clear it, then pulls the ugly green bobbly hat from his head, placing it on the table beside his knife and fork. "I just – I missed you."

Dean returns his smile and says, "Right back at you."

When Benny comes to take their orders, Dean asks for more than either of them should be able to manage. Sam could use a little extra meat on his bones, anyway. They do a pretty good job by the end of it, Dean reckons – well, Dean eats most of it. Sam mostly pushes his food around his plate like he's redecorating - a lot of it is taken home in plastic containers. Dean makes a mental note to fatten Sam up.

On the way out the door, Benny catches them and yanks them both into his big arms. "I'm glad you're okay," he says to Sam, who pales a little. Word travels fast in town, no doubt everyone and their mother knows about what happened to Sam the other night.

The drive to the cemetery takes twice as long as it should. Whether Dean's going slower because of the icy road or because Sam's hands are shaking on his lap, he's not sure. Parked outside the church, they just sit for a good fifteen minutes, quietly collecting themselves. They stare out onto the graveyard, it seems to stretch on forever, covered in fog. Dean can't make out where Mom and Dad might be. Beside them, the church is loud with the voices of singing attendees.

When Sam's as ready as he can be, Dean collects the bottle of whiskey he's been saving in the trunks since yesterday. Jim Beam was Dad's favourite.

Dean doesn't trip over the headstone this time, although his knees still ache from the other night, and the two of them gather on Mom and Dad's left and right, careful not to step on top of them. Sam sits down on the ground with his legs crossed under him, while Dean stays standing and unscrew the bottle.

He pours a good measure into the dirt.

"Careful," Sam says. "Don't get him hammered."

Dean shrugs and takes a sip from the bottle, ignoring Sam as he holds out his hand for a swig. "Wanna go first?"

Sam stares at the carved letters in the headstone, leans over to trace one gloved finger over 'J'. "I don't know where to start," he admits. "I don't even know if they're listening."

He ducks his head and wipes at his face. Dean drops to a crouch.

"Yo, Dad," he says, and Sam smiles a little. "I hope that wherever you and mom are, you're both partying with angels and driving around clouds in some vintage classics."

Sam snorts. "I don't think busted up cars go to heaven, Dean."

"Of course, they do, Sammy." Dean takes another quick sip. "Look, Dad. This past year has sucked balls and we miss you like crazy, but we're not on our own. We've got each other and Bobby and Jody look out for us. Don't worry too much about us, okay?"

"And I'm sorry," Sam quickly adds.

"What did I say about you saying sorry?"

"Let me finish," Sam says, then turns his gaze back to the ground. "Dad, I'm gonna try to be better. I'm gonna try to be who you knew I could be. I don't want to be like this anymore. I love you, too. I don't think I said that enough when you were still here to hear it."

Dean grips the neck or the bottle, tempted to take another drink, but he's supposed to be driving them both back to the apartment. He screws the lid back on and sets it into the snow next the headstone with the withered flowers.

He and Sam just stay there, quietly, only a glance at the other now and then. It doesn't feel right, to be with their parents but not with them. They're six feet beneath their feet, but even then, it's just a piece of them. Sam's across from him, above ground and breathing. A little messed up and bruised, but he's got a pulse and Dean can work with that.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam unexpectedly breaks the silence.

"Yeah?"

"You like Mr Novak, right?"

Dean clears his throat. "He's nice, sure."

Sam shakes his head, pulling his  _you're an idiot_  face that he especially reserves for Dean. "I just want you to know I think I'd be okay with it."

"Doesn't matter," Dean says. "I'm not interested in a relationship right now."

"You're a bad liar."

"I mean it. I've got other things to worry about."

Sam's mouth pinches and he shakes his head, the green bobble on his hat wiggles with the movement. He presses his fingers to his lips, then to the headstone. "I love you both," he mutters.

He climbs to his feet and waits for Dean to join him. "I freaked out the other night, but I was paranoid. I thought – I don't know what I thought. I don't want you to give something good up just because of me," he says.

"Dude, can we drop it?" Dean begs. He's been thinking non-stop about Cas, among other things, and talking about him out loud just makes it more painful. Sam means well, but Dean can't risk upsetting him again. The kid might be having an okay day for once, but that doesn't mean things won't go downhill again. At least, this time Dean's here to catch him. So long as Sam lets him.

He hooks his arm over his little brother's shoulders and guides him through the cemetery back towards the car. So long as Sam is here with him, things will be okay.

"Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue to come! (to be followed by more instalments in this 'verse)


	8. Epilogue: Merry Fucking Christmas

It doesn't snow on Christmas day, the soft white that had coated the town a week earlier now sits in gutters as cold sludge. Bobby's scrap yard is shining with wet junkers, slippery gravel under the Impala's wheels as Dean and Sam head up the drive. The house itself is a warm glow against the dreary grey of the outside, with bright coloured lights lining the porch and windows lit up a soft yellow.

Jody's out on the porch the second she hears the car doors open, arms open wide for the two of them. Dean can't help but notice Sam lingering a step behind, but he doesn't call him out, instead takes the lead just because Sam needs him to.

Bobby and Jody have been to visit them both a few times since The Incident, as Dean now calls it, but Sam hasn't been up for visitors, too busy holing up in his room like a hermit crab tucked in its shell. At least he hasn't been running off like he used to, at least Dean can keep a close eye on him. There's been no word from Ruby, and Dean isn't sure if it's a good or bad thing.

Jody just about crushes the two of them in her arms. "Merry Christmas," she says, pressing a kiss to each of their cheeks. She blinks at Sam, finally getting a proper look at him, no doubt noticing Bobby's hideous gift of a green hat sitting firmly on his head. Sam's barely taken it off since leaving the hospital. Dean hasn't made a comment about it, nor about the pink giftshop elephant that's been living in Sam's bedroom with him, always stuffed in his hoodie's pocket when he comes to the kitchen for meals.

Jody ushers the two of them in. It's almost too warm in the house, the fireplace lit and roaring behind the grate. The Christmas tree is clearly Jody's work, more personality than style with its mismatched baubles and bright tinsel. Before she and Bobby got together, years ago, Bobby never even had a tree, let alone decorations for its branches.

"Can I get you boys something to drink?" she asks, disappearing into the kitchen. They hear the fridge door open with a clink of bottles. She raises her voice to add, "We've got beer and soda."

"Beer," Sam and Dean answer together. Dean glares at his brother.

"One beer and one  _soda_ ," she says as she returns, handing a bottle of beer to Dean and a glass of cola to Sam. "Bobby's just prettying himself up, he should be down in a minute."

Sam sips his soda and slouches down onto the couch, flicking through the channels idly. Jody quietly summons Dean into the kitchen. The windows are steamed up and it's hotter than the living room, every inch of the counter space filled with carrot peels or potato skins. He stirs distractedly at the gravy on the hob, taking a deep glug of beer.

"How're things going?" Jody asks quietly, lining the kitchen table with place mats.

Dean shrugs. "They're going. Better than before, I think."

She pats his arm. "Don't hesitate to give us a call. Whenever you need."

"Got you on speed dial. Your number's 911, right?" Dean replies with a smile, but he doesn't feel it reach past his mouth. It's been a tough couple of weeks. Sam's still out of school – although Principal Harvelle was kind enough to offer to take him back when the term starts again, given recent circumstances. A  _final_  finalchance – and Dean's had to haul the kid around everywhere with him for fear of what might happen if he doesn't. He removed every sharp object in the house before Sam was released from hospital, but he still can't help checking Sam's room every time he's not looking.

Letting him go to the bathroom by himself is terrifying enough. Sam wants some space, clearly, but Dean's not sure that's an option.

"Things can only get better now that things are out in the open," Jody says. He knows she's trying to be helpful, but Dean finds it hard to believe her. This past year, things have gone from bad to worse, who says that'll stop now? He glances through the kitchen door to see Sam watching  _Miracle on 34_ _th_ _Street_ , the original black-and-white version.

"And therapy's starting soon," she prods. "Therapy will really help."

"Yeah," Dean says. He can't help sighing, he's exhausted. "I just – I worry a lot, y'know. He's my little brother and… I just don't want him to hurt himself again, but I know he probably will."

And, God, even just talking about it out loud is difficult. It's not normal to wake your brother up in the morning and panic for a moment that he might be dead, that he might've –

He can't help thinking about that night. If Cas hadn't been as quick as he was, Sam would have frozen to death. Simple as that. He swallows a breath and finishes the rest of the beer in one go.

"If something happens again, then we'll all be here to pick him back up," Jody says softly, peeking into the oven to poke at the roasting vegetables. She straightens up and rests her hands on her hips. "It's Christmas, Dean. Let's all just be together and eat more than we should. Sam's here and he's safe, we're keeping an eye on him. No worrying allowed today, okay?"

Dean smiles, genuinely this time. He has to remind himself that Sam's okay, the bandages are off his fingers, therapy's starting next month, school's back on the agenda. They're here and it's Christmas and nothing terrible is happening. "Yeah, I think I'm good with that."

* * *

They have this tradition every Christmas day to play Monopoly, winner gets first choice when it comes to carving the turkey. It's something their Mom used to do with her parents, then with John, then John did it with Dean and Sam when they were old enough to play. Bobby doesn't take part, too busy tending to the turkey like it's his first born.

Sam is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, leaning close and plotting his next move. Sam will win, because he  _always_ wins, but Dean's not going to kick up a fuss about it this year. Last Christmas was their first without their father, and it had been spent in their old house by themselves with greasy cartons of Chinese takeout, ignoring Bobby's calls.

This year, it still feels wrong with one less seat at the table, but Dean's just happy that Sam's here to play Monopolywith him. It's hot enough now that they had to open a window, Dean shed his sweater an hour ago, but Sam's still buried under his hoodie and that eye-sore of a green bobble hat. Still, Dean won't call him out on it, he isn't exactly ready to see what's hiding under those sleeves again.

Sam buys the most expensive plot in the game, still with plenty money to spare, and hands the dice over to Jody. She rolls just as Bobby announces dinner is ready, just as the doorbell rings.

"You invite someone else?" Dean asks.

"Not that I know of…" Jody says, turning to the kitchen where Bobby appears with a shrug.

Sam's lips are pressed together like he's trying hard not to smile. "It's for Dean," he says casually. "I'm pretty sure, anyway."

Dean frowns, but Sam is already up and striding off into the kitchen. Jody pats his arm and follows after Sam.

"Be quick, okay?" she says over her shoulder. "We're all starving."

He's left alone in the living room with a nearly-finished game of monopoly. A second shrill of the doorbell startles him out of his daze. He sighs and gets to his feet, padding in his socks down the hallway. He can see the shift of shadows under the door like whoever's on the other side is as uncertain as he is.

He opens the door and sucks in a breath.

"Cas."

"Um, hello," Cas says. He's wrapped up in a beige trench coat and a blue scarf, a brightly wrapped box is tucked under his arm. "Sam called. He said that if I didn't have any plans for Christmas… you look like you don't know anything about this."

"No, I didn't," Dean says, more in awe than anything. "Sam did this?"

"I – I can go," Cas says quickly, already turning away. Dean catches his shoulder and pulls him back, they're almost nose-to-nose, so close that he can feel how cold Cas is from here. He quickly steps back.

"Sam called you?" he asks again.

"Yes. He said you wanted to see me. Do you?"

Dean smiles. "Of course. Yeah, definitely. I just – I thought Sam wasn't okay with it. I didn't want to waste your time. I definitely didn't want to sneak around and upset Sam, especially after…"

"Yeah," Cas says, because Dean really doesn't need to finish that sentence. Everyone from this town to the next knows what happened with Sam two weeks ago, or they at least know some version of it.

"Are you gonna invite him in or what?" Sam's bellows from the kitchen.

Dean and Cas grin. "I suppose that counts as his blessing," Dean says. He waves him inside and takes his coat and scarf to hang in the closet. In the kitchen, they're met with three pairs of eyes and matching sly grins.

"Who's this?" Bobby asks, although there's no doubt he knows already.

"This is Cas," Dean says, then adds, "My friend. Uh, should I get another chair – "

But there's already an extra place set. How didn't he notice that before? Looking at the three faces at the table, it's clear he's been conned. Not that he minds. He takes his usual seat beside Sam, Cas occupies the empty place between Dean and Jody.

"Nice to meet you," Jody says.

"What are your intentions?" Bobby says, followed by a yelp of pain as Jody kicks him under the table. "I was just kidding," he grumbles.

Jody ignores him, turning back to Cas. "We're about to carve the turkey, do you want first pick?"

"But _I_  won Monopoly," Sam argues across the table.

"You  _were_ winning," Jody corrects. "You didn't win yet. Besides, we have a guest now."

Cas is quick to throw his hands up in surrender. "I don't mind, really."

He looks a lot more nervous than Dean's ever seen him. He hasn't known Cas for long, but he knows him as a silent but strong type, not the sort the bounce his knee anxiously under the table. Dean places his hand over his thigh to settle it, pleased when Cas' hand finds his, fingers knotting together.

"You okay?" he whispers, just as Bobby begins slicing up the meat.

Cas nods. "I've just… not really had Christmas in a long time. It's nice to sit down like this, like a family."

Dean squeezes his hand and catches Sam watching out of the corner of his eye. He looks pleased, a far cry from the red-rage he'd burst into just when finding Cas' number on Dean's phone two weeks ago. Dean leans close to his brother to whisper in his ear.

"Thank you."

Sam shrugs, voice quiet under the chatter at the other end of the table. "I felt really bad about… y'know. I just want you to be happy. You're happy, right?"

Dean flicks the bobble on top of Sam's hat and says, "I'm always happy with my pain-in-the-ass little brother."

Sam's cheeks are burning with blush, so Dean doesn't say anything further. He can't help scanning the room for any sharp objects; chopping knife on the counter, carving knife in Bobby's hand, glasses and forks all over the place. Sam's in for a lifetime of being bubble-wrapped like fine china.

He remembers what Jody said earlier. No worrying allowed today.

Today, they're not a poor orphan mechanic and a mentally ill teenager. They aren't a widow with dead a son and a widower who never had sons. They aren't a lonely school councillor with no plans for the holidays.

They're a family of their own, just sitting down to dinner on Christmas day. Like a real cheesy Hallmark Christmas movie.

Dean raises his beer bottle, too many words on his mind and none of them will do justice to the people around the table. Instead, he settles for, "Merry fucking Christmas, everybody!"

After they've clinked their glasses and pulled crackers, Dean piles mashed potatoes onto his plate. He watches Bobby peck Jody's cheek, sees Sam grin shyly as he adjusts a red paper crown atop his bobble hat, feels Cas' shoulder brush against his. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't feel so alone.


End file.
